


The Battle of Dover

by WerewolvesAreReal



Series: Pirate King Laurence [2]
Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boats and Ships, Book 1: His Majesty's Dragon, Gen, Piracy, Sequel, privateers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 00:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17172146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: Now commanding a small group of privateers, Laurence and Temeraire sail east. And increase their fleet, incidentally.





	The Battle of Dover

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Dragon_Ruthe for the idea of the 'Chinese invention' :)

“...In consequence whereof, and in good faith, we seal this pact with a libation offered according to the hallowed ritual of the sea.”

Laurence lifts his glass in a toast as Captain Peura tosses a sizable portion of champagne over the railing. Her women cheer and pound their feet against the deck of the nameless ship. Temeraire pushes his snout further over the side of the railing so that everyone wobbles dangerously.

“Laurence,” says the dragon as ale and wine passes around the deck. “This was quite an interesting ceremony. But she spoke of so many gods, and you said there is only one god. Is Captain Peura a heathen?”

“No, dear. Well,” Laurence amends, glancing at the woman's scarred face as she guzzles from a flask. “...Possibly. But, it is an old ship's tradition. A ship must be unnamed in such a way before taking a new name.”

“And she did not want the French name?”

“I believe she simply grew fond of the name of her old vessel,” which no one will utter until the requisite 24 hours after _that_ unnaming ceremony has passed, “that now sails under Captain Jonna,” one of Peura's previous officers.

Whatever Peura's reason, few pirates – now privateers, he reminds himself – turn down an excuse for a celebration.

“I suppose it _would_ be a bit confusing - even if her ship has changed. I suppose this one is better?”

“A very nice second-rate, even if it is French.”

Temeraire considers this. “She has the best ship by far, Laurence; but _you_ do not have anything that fights well. Only the _Wenglong,_ which has only a few guns, and you call Pan Zhong 'captain'. Surely you want a ship of your own”

“I will always feel strange on another captain's ship,” Laurence says. “But I have you, my dear. And that is far better.”

Temeraire flicks his tail. For the moment, at least, this answer seems to appease him.

“Hullo,” Peura's new First Lieutenant, Liina, appears by their sides. “Temeraire, Sir, we have a vat of the champagne if you want to try it.”

Temeraire brightens as Laurence looks between them with dread. “Oh, what a thoughtful idea!” he cries.

The crew cheers again.

* * *

 

“I daresay the course is as good as any,” Laurence says. “I beg pardon, dear; one moment.”

He leaves to speak to the signal ensign, who moments later directs the _Petit Moineau_ to fall further back from the _Smiling Man._ With his increased experience Abiodun has been granted full and independent captaincy of the ex-slave ship, but he retains a close friendship with Captain Vicario, who temporarily heads one of the two French vessels they took while leaving the Channel. By the agreement under the Letter of Marque a certain number of profits are due to the state of Britain – this ship is likely to be part of that offering - but it may be some time before they return properly to home port.

Vicario's ship is a third-rate and has some sixty guns; the second-rate was granted to Peura, who moved over nearly her entire crew. Since the renaming ceremony it has taken on her old ship's name of the _Laiska Joutsen,_ whereas her old Xebec under Captain Jonna is now called the _Peacemaker._

For some reason many of the crews found this name funny. Even the Chinamen laughed when Temeraire translated it for them.

Easy capture of two French supply ships has left them well in purse for their voyage, those ships being surrendered to a passing English frigate. It is somewhat startling how dependable numbers – and a dragon – can make matters so easy on the sea, but Laurence knows better than to be arrogant; he has seen dragons backing up ships before, and a group of nine ships is not so large that they cannot yet be closed in, especially when half their vessels do not rate.

Temeraire calls Laurence over and seems to be inspecting the skies. “I do not know what to think of our course,” the dragon says dubiously. “Should we be sailing yet away from England, Laurence? Have you not said that all the fighting is in the Channel?”

“Not all of it by any means. Bonaparte is determined to leave his mark on all of Europe.”

“Well, all the fighting _we_ should care about.”

“It seems strange that England has given us a letter of Marque only to tell us they do not want us near the war,” Laurence concedes, irate at the memory. But perhaps this is best; the aviators, certainly, must still be disgruntled that Temeraire has slipped from their grasp. “That still leaves us to decide a course.”

“Have you given thought to Abiodun's suggestion of sailing to Cape Horn?” Temeraire asks.

Laurence has; he dismissed the idea nearly as soon as it was suggested. “I am afraid, dear, that it would be approaching May when we came to those waters, and that is a dangerous time to be sailing against the westerlies. We should not tempt a storm.”

Temeraire knows the dangers of gales, of course. It was a massive storm that killed Riley, upended the politics of the _Reliant_ and first sparked the turn against them. “Very well,” he concedes. “What about the middle of Africa?”

“It would pose fewer difficulties, but would also hold little potential – and I confess I should indeed like to have some more action against the French.” Here Laurence proposes his idea; “I had thought to send Vicario, Abiodun, Jonna, and Araullo down on just such a path. There is little need to keep so many ships together, and they may trade with Madeira along the way.”

“Oh; but we are beginning to look so grand,” Temeraire says wistfully, twisting his head around to regard the sails bobbing at a distance. With amusement Laurence understands that Temeraire is starting to regard the ships as his own treasures, hoarding creature that he is.

“We will schedule a rendezvous in a few months by the Channel,” he says. This leaves them five ships including the _Wenglong._

“But where will _we_ go, Laurence?”

“I had thought to pass through Gibraltar and try the Mediterranean – it is mainly merchantmen there, but they are not without their own warships to defend the coasts, and there are tensions with the East. France and Italy both have many ships on the water – Italy is ruled now by Napoleon's son-in-law.”

“Oh, so we may get more French ships?” Temeraire looks at their latest prizes speculatively. “All my crews are dressed much better now that we have money, Laurence; yes, that will do quite well.” Temeraire ruffles his wings officiously, and Laurence has to smile. It seems the matter is decided.

The ships separate near the southern end of Portugal. The _Wenglong_ curves east in the direction of Gibraltar with the _Amiti_ _é_ , _Laiska Joutsen,_ and _Noite Vermelho_ spread around in formation.

They capture a supply ship with almost appalling ease west of Gibraltar. The poor captain and his crew of six lower their colors before the _Amiti_ _é,_ the fastest ship, can even get within firing range. Captain Peura claims the tricolored flag and says some of her ladies will be able to make dresses from it; she has a strange look in her eye and Laurence does not ask if she is joking.

As they approach Gibraltar the _Laiska Joutsen_ seems to lag significantly behind even the burdensome _Wenglong,_ which can only be deliberate, unless Peura is having one of her younger (and, apparently, very inept) officers try a hand at navigation. Finally Laurence shakes his head and approaches Temeraire by the railing. Temeraire is circling the ships cheerfully in the water, as he does, and perks up when Laurence approaches. “My dear, perhaps we might visit Captain Peura – I believe she may appreciate the company.”

The women on the deck nearly fall into the water calling out to Temeraire; officers reign them in only half-heartedly. The discipline on the decks is entirely dissimilar to that of the Navy, but as efficiency still seems to be suitable Laurence cannot find any particular fault in this. He is, after all, no longer _in_ the Navy.

Captain Peura stomps out to investigate the ruckus. “Here, now, are you trying to excite the hands?” she asks without real heat. She does not seem surprised to see them and only comes to lean over the rails, scowling at anyone who tries to eavesdrop too blatantly.

“Is there a problem with the sails, Captain?” Laurence asks.

Peura glares at him. “No.”

Laurence waits; nothing else is forthcoming. “It is only,” he says, “That you have been falling somewhat behind - “

“You _can_ ask questions outright, you know; I daresay the effort would not kill you.” Peura slaps the rail. “It's Gibraltar – I've told you before that I can't go there, nor my crew. They'll put me in irons.”

“They will not,” Laurence says immediately. “The Letter of Marque gave pardons to all captains in our company.”

“Ha,” Peura says. “The English want you far more than I, and some places tend to interpret such commissions more freely than others.”

“If they try to take you I promise I shall squash them,” says Temeraire earnestly.

Peura looks at him. “Well, now _that's_ a bit nicer,” she approves.

“Temeraire,” Laurence begins, “It is not appropriate to threaten men in His Majesty's navy.”

“I shall not threaten simply _anyone,_ but I shall certainly threaten those who mean to harm us,” says Temeraire plainly. “If these navy men are sensible I do not see that there will be any problem at all, Laurence. I will just make matters clear to them when we go ashore.”

Laurence rubs his neck despairingly.

“...Perhaps this won't be so bad at that,” Peura speculates.

* * *

 

They sail to Gibraltar with very little fuss, all told. Their arrival cannot be described the same way.

Gibraltar is manned by two different factions. The port itself is overlooked by the navy, headed by Admiral Chow; Admiral Portland, of the aviators, has been more newly promoted to his position.

Both groups react very rapidly to the presence of Laurence's group, which in this case is less than flattering.

“You will get your supplies and leave,” Chow says. “Pirates are not welcome here.”

Laurence stares hard at Chow, ignoring the sweat springing into place on his forehead. The man's tiny office is sweltering and he has not been offered a chair. “As privateers we are here under the warrant of His Majesty - “

“I have friends who are privateers – they are not deserters, and they did not compel their men to mutiny!” Even Lieutenant Morson, the lone aviator hovering impatiently behind Chow and waiting for a chance to speak, appears vaguely uncomfortable at this bluntness. “It is a matter of law and lawlessness that separates the pirate from the privateer – you, Sir, are no servant of the king.”

“Do you contradict his Majesty's orders?” Laurence asks.

At this Chow reddens. “Do I contradict – ! Now see here...”

Lieutenant Morson clears his throat. “These matters – naval matters – are perhaps not the point of the discussion,” he says. “Mr. Laurence, the Aerial Corps are far more concerned about the dragon that travels with you. Temeraire, I believe? It was not our decision to grant a commission and send you away, and some things were left unsaid.” He does not say that the aviators would never have let him leave England with a prime heavy-weight. “You understand we would like to ask you some questions.”

“If you must, you will have that chance; I will be buying supplies with my purser and quartermaster tonight, but Temeraire is eager to see the covert and meet other dragons.” Laurence looks at the the Lieutenant firmly. “Before we return to the sea, of course.”

Morson looks like he's bit into something sour. “Of course,” he echoes.

* * *

 

Laurence sees little evidence of Peura or the crew of the _Laiska Joutsen_ while he undergoes arrangements with the quartermaster ashore, though he thinks he glimpses one or two familiar faces under less-familiar dresses and strangely lopsided suits. He also sees Captain Ferreira peeking around a shop and whispering to a stall owner. Laurence frowns and decides to approach the man.

Ferreira is speaking in animated French. “Aye, aye, we know what we're being about,” he says. “Tetouan, now, tell those curs to meet us in Tetouan or - “ Ferreira stops when he sees Laurence.

“Captain,” Laurence says mildly. “Has there been a change to our itinerary?”

Ferreira shifts; the stall-keeper glances between them and rapidly withdraws. “Well,” Ferreira hedges. “It had just occurred to me, Sir, that Tetouan might make a good port of call, a _grand_ port - “ He gestures expansively. The brilliant red sleeves of his coat flap in the wind.

“I hardly see why, when we are welcome at Gibraltar - “ though that is perhaps something of a strong word. “Do you have... old acquaintances there?”

Anyone else might well flush at the implication; Tetouan is well-known for welcoming pirates.

But Ferreira of course contradicts all expectations. He nods rapidly. “Ones who will bring us good profits, Captain!”

Laurence sighs slightly. But Tetouan is right in their path, and it does not do to distrust one's senior officers – such as they are. He rationalizes that there is little one or two pirate ships could hope to incur on them, and if any ships made such an effort, well, that is what privateers are _for._ “Very well then. We will set out tomorrow.”

“With Temeraire?” Ferreira presses.

Laurence eyes the man narrowly. “...With Temeraire,” he agrees at last.

Few of the final purchases require his personal attention; Laurence is able to separate from the quartermaster within a few hours and leaves to find Temeraire after receiving word that he is already at the local covert. He hopes reception has proven more favorable here than it did in England.

He spots Temeraire at a distance when he approaches the covert, like a tiny bird on the horizon; the Celestial is surrounded by other dragons. There are smaller ones, such as Reapers and Bright Coppers and even a veritable flock of grey-coppers and couriers, and also a large Chequered Nettle slightly larger than Temeraire. They seem to be talking earnestly, which is heartening to see. But Laurence is waylaid before he can approach them.

“I beg your pardon.” It is a child – only a child, and after a moment Laurence realizes the runner seems to be a girl. “I beg your pardon, Sir.” She pauses, clearly confused about the form of address, and then plunges on: “ - The Admiral wishes to see you.”

Which is how Laurence finds himself standing in Admiral Portland's office entirely uncertain of his reception. He probably cuts something of a farcical figure. Captain Peura assures him that most privateers dress after the navy, eschewing only ranks, cords, and 'occasional frivolous bits of frappery.' His coat could not quite belong to a navy-captain, but it seems close enough to mock one, and the deep blue seems almost blasphemous standing before someone who is – still – an officer in His Majesty's service.

“I have had word about you,” is how Portland begins. “From England and other places; the Portuguese have had a few things to say of your crew.”

Laurence has no response to this, so after a moment he says, “If you have any inquiries to make, Sir, I shall answer them as best as I may.”

“I do not suppose you have any intention of changing your mind and joining the service?”

“That was my original intention, Sir, and I regret that it has proven impossible.”

Perhaps his choice of wording was unwise. “Impossible,” Portland echoes. “ - I will not ask what you imply about us, Captain. I daresay I will not like it.”

Laurence wisely keeps silent.

Admiral Portland watches him narrowly. “I will have no trouble from you,” he says.

“I am of course at the service of His Majesty,” Laurence says.

But Portland just snorts. He leans back in his chair. “Service! - Well, keep your dragon away from the coverts and I will be satisfied,” he says, which is a curious request. “He has been causing a fuss, giving the dragons notions of piracy and prizes, and it is not good for discipline. Now - get out of my office.”

* * *

 

“Oh, they were all very excellent and quite polite; but life in the covert seems quite dull,” is Temeraire's opinion. “I quite prefer being a pirate, Laurence.”

“We are _not_ pirates, my dear. We are privateers.”

“Everyone says we are pirates.”

“For many years people said the earth was flat; that does not mean it was true.”

To his relief, Temeraire seems to consider this a sound argument. “That is an excellent point. But, Laurence, do you wish that things had been different? That we had gone to England to become proper aviators after all?”

Laurence is quiet. He recalls the little Winchester from the ports – Carver's talk of _breeding grounds,_ and the way Captain Little would not quite look him in the eye when he asked questions. “...No, my dear,” he says lowly. “It is perhaps unworthy of me; but sometimes I feel that we have narrowly avoided a great tragedy by escaping the service, dearly though England does need us.”

“We shall help them anyway,” Temeraire assures. And Laurence sighs, because this would be much more reassuring if Temeraire actually cared about England at all.

They find themselves in Tetouan at noon that day. Temeraire stays by the port, bobbing among the sea-crafts like some strange mobile ship while a few of the smaller yachts and boats mysteriously vanish. Sailors on the larger vessels settle for lining the decks to watch him nervously.

Laurence goes inland with Ferreira, who for his part seems to know the place well. The man meets him alone, approaching Temeraire and glancing around warily.

Laurence understands at once.

“The _Noite Vermelho_ is not in port?”

“Oh, Araya is scouting the coast. I don't trust any of these dogs,” which is hardly reassuring.

“Araya - your first lieutenant?” Laurence recalls.

“My quartermaster,” Ferreira corrects. Laurence frowns before recalling that the 'quartermaster' is the second-in-command on pirating vessels. He shakes his head; the hierarchy of the ships can be confusing, and Peura and Ferreira, especially, still manage their ships like pirates would.

Ferreira leads him directly to a small, somewhat dirty pub not far from the water. The salt-stained shirts and hard skin that fills the room makes the clientele readily identifiable – sailors, or more likely pirates based on their wary gazes and abundance of scars, colorful scarves and earrings – pirates seem to be even more fond of the last than normal seamen, for whatever reason.

Ferreira glances once over the main room and then gestures to a side-door; Laurence precedes him through and finds three men inside a smaller room, all of them sitting around a table.

“Llega tarde,” says the oldest man; his gray beard is worn ragged, and he peers between the two with only one good guy. “¿Asi que? Cuéntanos por qué esto es digno de nuestro tiempo, Ferreira. ”

Laurence understands 'tarde' – late – and their seems to be something about a question and 'time' involved, but he gathers little else. He glances at Ferreira.

“Ach,” Ferreira says. “See, my Spanish is not so good as it should be; we should have brought Sala.”

“I daresay he would not like to be here,” Laurence says honestly, and Ferreira only laughs, because Laurence is quite correct.

But Ferreira manages a few sentences. The men glance at Laurence speculatively.

After some discussion one of the men says,  “Así que es cierto?”

Ferreira seems to understand. In response to the man's question he gestures for a parchment and ink and scratches out a crude black dragon. Under it he dots five tiny ships in a line

The men visibly react and mutter to each other. Laurence is disconcerted. Have other people heard of Temeraire already?

Ferreira jabs at the ships with his quill and then at the dubious depiction of Temeraire. He says something and the men look skeptical.

“They must be willing to work with the dragon, too,” Ferreira informs Laurence, which is reasonable – except that Ferreira has not yet said for what purpose they are talking with these men. Are the pirates to accompany them somewhere, then?

Finally the old captain nods grudgingly. “Sí , sí, si las ganancias siguen no es ningún problema.”

Ferreira beams.  “ Arreglos ... más tarde. Contrato. ¿Sí?” They shake.

“Now to what did you just agree,” asks Laurence, realizing warily that perhaps he should have put some better limits on Fereira beforehand.

“They shall be joining us, Sir!” The pirate cries. “Three good new ships – why, Captain Jimenez here even has a stolen fourth-rate. And they know of some good ports and routes up by Turkey; we'll not be wanting for power once we set out, I tell you.”

“We _already_ were not wanting,” Laurence says, a little dismayed. But when the foreign pirates eye him he only nods stiffly, already beholden to his subordinate's promise. It is, he supposes, nothing to really argue; there may be advantages to such an arrangement. But more ships present unknown elements, too, and he will need to watch these men closely.

* * *

 

Captain Sala, as it happens, has a number of suggestions for their time in port. He tells Laurence that they ought to make the most of the visit inland. “The smaller ships have few guns,” he explains. “I know we are sailing as privateers, but we may as well do some trade; there is never a guarantee of prize-money.”

Laurence well knows this. Even the ships they've already captured could come to some misfortune. “I quite agree. But if we are weighted too heavily we will be unable to pursue fleeing ships; in short, we will be useless as privateers.”

Sala seems to have expected this argument. “I have found a few merchanters in need of protection, Sir. Each ship has a few guns, and they are quite willing to sail with us and fight, in exchange for protection. The profits will be shared, too.

Laurence considers. “Surely this would intrude on their business? We cannot sail at the whim of merchants, Mr. Sala.”

“That is all dependent on the type of cargo,” Sala says. “I am certain it can be arranged, Sir.”

Laurence supposes that they and the merchants can simply go their separate ways if there is any conflict. And extra guns could be helpful; he does not quite trust Ferreira's friends, not yet. “Very well. I will leave the arrangements to your expertise, captain.”

Temeraire peers up above the water as Laurence approaches the Tetouan docks. “Oh, Laurence, there are so many splendid ships here... Are you finished?”

“Yes. I suppose that if Ferreira has transport we may head back to the ship.”

“Of course... And with no prizes?” Temeraire asks wistfully. He eyes a nearby ship nearly half his size.

“No, my dear, but we may have new acquisitions; I will tell you as we fly.”

As he approaches, Laurence regrets that there is no better place for Temeraire among the fleet. He is still growing, though surely he must stop soon. Even on the massive _Wenglong_ Temeraire is forced to lay curled in the middle of the ship while cheerful crewmen clamber over him to attend to their tasks. Laurence hopes to find a better arrangement at some point, but short of claiming a cumbersome dragon-transport he can conceive of few options. Even now, looking around at the ships around Tetouan, every vessel falls short of even the _Wenglong's_ width. Gibraltar was quite the same.

At least there is one solace; Temeraire entirely approves of the prospect of new men. Their origins concern him not at all, “Because Peura and our other friends were once pirates, Laurence, and anyway they seem much better than everyone at Gibraltar and all those people who were so terrible on the _Reliant,”_ which to be fair is hard to argue.

The flight back to the berthed _Wenglong_ is short. Temeraire takes his ease walking along the dry land, taking advantage of the rare opportunity where he can – though, he complains, land still moves far too often. Laurence reflects ruefully that he has made a proper sea-beast of the Celestial.

Nunes approaches Laurence while he's walking with Temeraire. “Captain Ferreira is asking to see you before we leave port, Sir.”

'Again' he does not say. “Captain Ferreira has done quite _enough,”_ Laurence sighs, but he goes anyway.

Laurence finds Ferreira near where the new pirating ships are berthed. “Captain! Our new friends have a gift for you, ah, here we are - “ He waves for a few men who, grinning, run over with a rolled-up sailcloth. When the men spread it out Laurence can see it is a flag. He startles.

“Is that - “

“A dragon! Your very own signature – every fleet ought to have one.”

“Every fleet,” Laurence echoes, and then, automatically, “That is very kind, Mr. Ferreira. Please pass on my thanks.”

“We will have it installed on your ship straight away,” Ferreira says, and the men are loping off with the cloth before Laurence can protest.

He does not know that he could _find the words_ , anyway; the symbol of a black dragon is burned into his mind like a brand.

* * *

 

“Temeraire,” Laurence contemplates. “I believe matters are getting a little out of hand.”

Only the peek of Captain Sala's _Tranquilidad_ is visible off their bow, but Laurence knows that the man's four Spanish ships sail somewhere behind. These tidy ships are not quite up to naval standards – they sport a dozen carronades each and no proper cannons, but Laurence knows that the smaller shots can be deadly enough. Three sails of unrepentant black cloth are spread out leeward of Ferreira's ship. “No hay necesidad de ser sutil cuando estamos jurídica,” one of the captains had said before leaving port, though Laurence is unsure what purpose the black sails are meant to send when one is _not_ pirating.

Altogether they number twelve ships – and Laurence forcibly discounts the larger tally that might be accrued if one considers Captain Abiodun and his command, sailing for Africa. The thought of all these vessels dizzies him. “Whatever do you mean,” Temeraire asks in response to his musings.

The dragon dips his head briefly under the water, mindful of Laurence's position on his back. They are swimming round the closest ships, as Temeraire often does, and the crews stop to wave as they go by. When he raises his head again Laurence answers. “We are amassing an almost absurd force, Temeraire – whyever should we need so many ships at our disposal?”

“Were we not told to gather forces for England, that we might help them in the war? And it seems to me that it is a better thing to present a greater force than a lesser, which might risk being defeated.”

“Greater forces still demand greater pay, greater supply - “

“Than we will find a way to supply them and pay them,” says Temeraire logically. The dragon shakes his head, sending a spray of water in every direction. “I suppose we must find some excellent prizes, of course. But that should not be difficult. Just look at how many of us there are!”

That, Laurence does not say, is precisely the problem.

He does not hold any qualms about commanding a large number of ships. As a young officer it is natural to hold certain ambitions, and a position as a commodore or admiral should follow in a long-standing career. In ten years he might have expected a promotion and command of a fleet, but he does not know what to think of the same under these circumstances. The idea sits ill on his shoulders.

Still, he is in command – like it or not. A week of easy sailing goes past without more than dismal fishing-boats on the horizon. The journey finds their group approaching Malta, or rather trying to skirt the contentious island. It is east of here, in the Mediterranean, that the watch catches sight of an Italian sail.

And another. And another.

One of the officers busily signals with the other ships, then reports to Pan Zhong. “Five,” the captain tells Laurence in Mandarin, which is enough.

He gathers, after a look through a spy-glass, that it's likely a merchant convoy – armed, almost certainly, and dangerous, but not able to outgun them. “Oh, is it another battle?” Temeraire asks. His tail lashes eagerly. He's still crouched low to the deck, trying to hide among the _Wenglong_ like a hulking shadow. Crewmembers duck under his oblivious appendages. “We have not battled in weeks.”

“Yes, dear, I believe it is – or will be, if they do not surrender. First I should like us to get the ships closer. Even you, Temeraire, cannot take five ships without injury, so we must have them corralled between us first.”

Temeraire seems a bit disappointed, but he doesn't protest. With a quick signal Ferreira's company drifts west and out of sight; if Laurence cannot see him, the merchants cannot either. The _Tranquilidad_ continues forward, closing the distance, but she is only accompanied now by one of her own merchant ships.

Seeing only the _Wenglong –_ and perhaps in a minute or two, Laurence judges, the _Tranquilidad –_ the merchant fleet continues cautiously, adjusting their course to skirt the Chinese vessel. Laurence allows this until the first of the merchant ships has nearly crossed them directly northward; then Pan Zhong orders the ship into a sharp tack, and they turn about to pursue the merchant vessels as sailors rush to put on every spare inch of sail in the ship's hold.

The ruse is over, and the merchants start to pick up their own speed borne of desperation; Laurence sees men crawling over the sails in the distance, but not as fast as they should be moving. Most likely, he thinks, the ships are alarmed but a little confused. The _Wenglong_ should not be able to pose a serious threat to five ships, so why try at all?

Indeed, it seems one of the merchants – a small caravel - is willing to challenge the junk. It turns about without trying to flee. Pan Zhong gives a familiar order; Laurence reflects ruefully that he may not know any Chinese greetings, but he certainly recognizes the word for 'guns.' “Come, Temeraire,” he says. The Celestial perks up. “I believe it is time.”

He seats himself astride Temeraire's neck and wraps his hands around two of the small leather bands looping down from the cord around the dragon's throat. One of the younger officers runs up before they take flight. “Pan Zhong says that the _Tranquilidad_ is having a problem with her sail,” Temeraire reports after the officer speaks them. “She might be a little slow.”

“Thank you,” Laurence tells the captain. “Temeraire - ?“

Temeraire pushes off the deck with barely a wobble. In the distance the merchant ship immediately begins to shift and turn; clearly they're rethinking their chances.

But then, after another moment, the other four ships swivel about. Signal-flags flash and Laurence glimpses cannon-ports opening. None of the ships, he judges, could have anything more than a few four-pounders; more likely they have carronades. “Stay above them,” he directs. “They are aiming for you; go for the one on the end, there, I believe they have the fewest guns - “

Temeraire huffs, evidently offended, but heads for the smaller ship anyway. He ducks away just as a crack of cannons splits the air; the two iron balls sail by, nowhere near to harming him, and then Temeraire wings furiously to a higher position as the rest of the brief broadside rolls out in quick succession.

The endmost ship starts to tack into the wind in an attempt to show Temeraire its other side, but the Celestial tilts his wings and dives. With one brutal lunge Temeraire tangles his feet in the merchantman's sails, lifts up, and wings away. For a precarious moments they are halted mid-air. Then the whole ship lurches, rises briefly above the waterline, and with a horrible series of cracks and groans the mast splinters apart. Sailors cry out as the white sailcloth falls to the deck in heavy pieces.

This maiming seems to make the remaining four ships hesitate. Two bob in place to no effect, but one fires a warning shot that sinks a useless mile away from Temeraire while another turns toward the _Wenglong_. At that instant the _Transquilidad_ comes over the horizon and Temeraire feints at the ship menacing the Chinese junk. This time he isn't so fortunate; a stray shot, unbelievably accurate, spirals into the sky and clips his wing.

Temeraire's roar has a queer sound. Laurence chokes and nearly slips, head rattling with the force it, and he blindly starts to turn toward the dragon's injury before he remembers his position and clutches more tightly at the fragile leather straps keeping him tethered to Temeraire. He swings dizzily when they zigzag down toward the _Wenglong,_ Temeraire obviously bewildered by his injury and newly wary of the ships.

Caution is well and good, but fear helps no one in battle. “Do not let them win,” Laurence says. His voice sounds strange and tinny. “They will press forward if you appear nervous.”

“Oh, I am not a coward,” Temeraire protests. But he wavers for a moment before, huffing, he swings forward and dives toward the nearby ship.

He takes the masts from this one with great discrimination, ignoring the musket-shot tickling his legs to rake repeatedly at the strong triple beams. He spirals straight into the sky before anyone can turn a cannon more vertical; ships are simply not devised for aerial warfare.

But even maimed, this one seems determined to do damage. Temeraire turns toward the three remaining vessels, satisfied with his work, when Laurence looks over his shoulder and exclaims, “Temeraire! The _Wenglong!”_

Barely in range, the drifting Chinese vessel takes sudden fire. Temeraire responds by faking another dive toward the closest vessel.

The _Noite Vermelho,_ already visible to them, trails behind and will appear to the other ships shortly. It doesn't much matter, though. The _Tranquilidad_ 's four accompanying merchant ships have guns enough to be threatening; the Italian vessels raise their flags one after another when they find themselves so clearly outnumbered.

Which is how the fleet gains five more ships – though two are too damaged for practical use or repair, short of having them somehow towed along. The crews of those ships are evacuated onto the other vessels, where they watch with grim eyes as Temeraire batters the ships beneath the waves.

Laurence, resigned, puts the remaining four under Peura's command when she arrives. The grand _Laiska Joutsen_ seems to properly subdue them, though Laurence expects a number of the sailors will need to be put ashore when they make port.

More importantly -

 

 

 

“The hull?” Laurence clarifies. His Mandarin is still too poor for direct conversation, and the Chinese woman begins to look a little exasperated. He glances at Temeraire for help.

“It has holes,” says the Celestial helpfully. “ - Which is quite bad, I think?”

They flag down the captain after that. But Pan Zhong seems entirely unconcerned.

“He says only a _small part_ of the ship will sink,” Temeraire translates dubiously. “No, let me try again - “ They speak further. “ - That is, only part of the ship will take water; I suppose it is sectioned very well, under the deck, so damage to one area does not ruin the whole ship. That is an excellent notion, Laurence, why do the other ships not work like that?”

“I will have to inspect their design more thoroughly later, my dear.” If what Pan Zhong says is true, the design is impressive. “They are certain?”

“ - Mostly certain.”

Laurence frowns. The weight of a dragon will not help repairs. “Let us move inland, then – Temeraire, swim alongside the _Laiska Joutsen_ for now, if you please. We will have to find a port of repair.”

But Pan Zhong argues viciously – not that Laurence can understand much of it – and finally Temeraire says, “He says it would be shameful, Laurence, to abandon a Celestial for such a little thing. He doesn't want to leave the fleet.”

“That is no reason to risk his ship.”

“Well, perhaps we might keep sailing, and go inland if there is a problem? We can stay by the shore.”

It will be _necessary_ to remain near the shore if the _Wenglong_ cannot support Temeraire; he can hardly land on any of the other ships. “As you like,” Laurence says at last. “But first I must consult with Captain Sala about likely ports on our way to the bay.”

The convoy makes slower progress after that, though no one seems to be in low spirits. 15 ships, Laurence thinks, almost in disbelief. He's not quite sure how this keeps happening. Britain should be pleased, at least. The thought cheers him.

After a few hours of sailing the fleet is just a few miles distant from the shore. Temeraire, who has earned a well-deserved sleep, suddenly shifts and jerks his head upright. “Do you hear that?” he demands of Laurence.

Laurence has been listening to the increasingly confusing calls of Mandarin being thrown around the deck. He sighs. “If I did, I did not understand,” he mutters.

“There is a dragon,” Temeraire insists. “On the shore! No – two – three? – I think one of them is certainly hurt, Laurence. Or perhaps very angry”

“Then it is good he is with friends,” Laurence suggests. He knows where this is going.

“But you said there should be few cities around here,” Temeraire argues. “What if they are having trouble flying? We must help – you were saying only the other day how necessary it is to be considerate of others.”

That particular conversation had been an attempt to limit Temeraire's piratical habits. “Yes,” Laurence agrees, resigned. “I suppose I did say so. Very well; pray tell Captain Psn Zhong that we will be leaving, after all.”

They head inland a few minutes later. Temeraire searches the beach in slow spirals, though how he expects to overlook a dragon – if there is another dragon – Laurence does not understand.

Instead of a dragon, they come across a man.

They see him when the man runs across a hill in the distance, headed toward the shore, and then sees Temeraire. He skids to a halt, looks behind him – and then continues toward Temeraire anyway.

This makes Laurence curious. Most people do not run _toward_ dragons, barring their odd Chinese companions. “Temeraire, let us speak with that man. He seems distressed.”

But as it turns out, the reason for the man's alarm becomes quickly apparent.

Behind the man a dragon swoops over the hill, darting back and forth with cackling, self-satisfied motions. Another dragon appears and barrels into the first, a gray middling-weight with a streak of red over his face. This larger dragon chatters angrily for a minute, then shrieks in the direction of the running man.

Both the dragons are unharnessed.

“Those are ferals,” Laurence says. “Temeraire, fly forward, quickly; we must head them off.”

“Why would they want to hurt him?” asks Temeraire, lazily turning.

Laurence realizes he has never discussed ferals with Temeraire. “Some wild dragons will eat humans, Temeraire.”

Temeraire actually pauses in the air a moment, jolting to a horrified stop. Then he rushes forward.

The ferals squawk with alarm as he barrels through them. Temeraire bulldozes through them once, twists around, and dives again. On the second pass he lands heavily in front of the exhausted stranger. The force of his landing causes a compression of air, and the man's coat flaps back from the force. Temeraire's foreleg is only a few meters away from him, but the stranger does not even flinch.

The big gray feral puffs his chest and waddles over to Temeraire. Temeraire regards this creature in bemusement as he bounces around, screaming words that are technically incomprehensible but probably not complimentary.

“Should I hit him again?” asks Temeraire dubiously. “He is rather small – it seems unfair.” As an experiment he lifts his ruff, puffing himself up as the little dragon does. The gray creature pauses in his yelling to take a step back.

Three more dragons appear behind him. Emboldened, the gray dragon again starts his strange dance.

“How many do you suppose there are,” Laurence asks, more to himself then Temeraire. The dragons are small and scrawny, but in significant numbers they met yet match the Celestial.

“Excuse me,” says a voice. Laurence is startled to hear perfect English come from the foreigner, who moves to stand in front of Temeraire. Glaring at the largest feral, the man begins speaking in a stream of clicks and hisses Laurence could not hope to imitate. The feral dragons pause. The gray one lowers himself sulkily to listen.

At last the stranger turns. “I thank you for your interference,” he says. “These damned idiots do not much care to listen when they get ideas in their head. I hope you do not mind, but I may have threatened to have your friend here stomp them if they should be unruly.”

Temeraire looks down at the grumbling gray mid-weight. “I do not mind,” he says, ruff lowering in disapproval at the dragons' manners. “They seem quite silly.”

Laurence takes this as his cue to unlatch from Temeraire's collar and slide to the ground. He introduces himself, and the man gives his name as Tenzing Tharkay, explaining, “ _This_ great idiot is Arkady. He is the leader of these ferals – there is another half-dozen following behind us, all making a great ruckus. Now – are you from Britain's Aerial Corps, then? I would not have expected visitors this far east.”

“We are privateers,” Laurence evades. The man raises his brows. Laurence gestures to the sea, where in the distance the _Laiska Joutsen_ and _Peacemaker_ are visible along with the topsails of the Spanish vessels.“If you do not mind me asking, however did you come to have the company of these creatures – Arkady and the others?”

The man considers them. “I heard some rumor of ferals being put to use for transport and battle, under the guide of a strange pirate,” Tharkay says. “ - I see now they referred to your dragon, who is not a feral at all. But in any case I imagined I might be able to fly to Turkey more swiftly than I could walk, and perhaps the Sultan would find some good, profitable use for these dragons for which I might be paid. As it happened they were perfectly meek all the way, but I suppose the Sultan did not imagine profits when this rabble swarmed down and ate all his cows. We had to flee to the coast and have been hiding since.”

Laurence has known Temeraire from the shell and trusts him implicitly, but he must respect any man who can negotiate with a dozen feral dragons. “You would be most welcome with us,” he offers impulsively. “It would be cramped, perhaps, but most of your dragons are rather small.”

Tharkay startles. “The dragons – you want to carry _feral dragons_ on your ships?”

“I am sure they are perfectly friendly,” Temeraire says, and when two promptly start snarling at each other, adds ominously, “Or can be _made_ to be friendly.”

Tharkay eyes them. “I did not know what to expect when I heard of you – it was not this, I think. But I suppose I have no better options, and I confess I owe these creatures a debt... at least until they eat anything else expensive. I will accept your offer.”

The dragons are a bit harder to convince, but they perk up when Temeraire starts bragging about his prizes and the gold they will win. And once Tharkay manages to convey “No more sand” they seem much reconciled to the idea of clinging to strange, moving hunks of wood.

Tharkay, with the large Arkady, joins Laurence and Temeraire on the _Wenglong._ The Celestial is becoming more and more cramped on this ship, but Arkady folds his wings neatly and makes his landing on Temeraire's back. The feral walks up and down his spine without issue, much to the Celestial's grumbling.

Laurence asks an officer to signal the other ships and warn them about the imminent arrival of friendly dragons. The officer does not know English as well as Pan Zhong, so there is a little pantomiming until Tharkay grows exasperated and translates in quick, flawless Mandarin. The officer bows and hurries away.

...Laurence might have to ask for lessons.

“This is the cleanest pirate ship I have ever seen,” Tharkay notes. Laurence is a bit distracted watching a tiny dragon, Wringe, diving down to attempt to drink seawater, then sputtering with confusion at the taste. “ - In fact all these ships could be mistaken for proper merchant vessels, if not for the dragons and flags.”

Laurence recalls the state of Ferreira and Peura's vessels when he first encountered them. He has not given the matter much thought, but all the captains have, indeed, started holding their crews to tighter standards in the past months. It seems vain to consider that it might be his influence, but of course he always kept the _Amitie_ well maintained, and now the _Wenglong's_ crew is ever eager to please Temeraire. “...Have you seen many pirate ships?” he asks carefully.

“Likely not so many as you,” Tharkay replies. Which is fair.

But Laurence feels compelled to provide a correction. “To be clear, we are not pirates; England has granted us a Letter of Marquee.”

“And yet,” Tharkay says, “I expect you would all hang as pirates nonetheless if the French caught up with you.”

“Do you have second thoughts, Mr. Tharkay?”

At that the man shrugs. “Not at all. Enough countries want to hang me already; what is one more?”

Saying this Tharkay throws him a challenging look. Laurence already has suspicions that Peura is wanted by _England,_ so he chooses not to pursue the matter. “If we shall talk this through, please accept our hospitality and come aboard the...” Laurence pauses, but etiquette demands he offers the best to a guest. “ _Laiska Joutsen,”_ he decides. “We may discuss our terms further there, with my second; they seem comfortable for now, but we need to determine how best to distribute the ferals.”

Tharkay eyes him warily but agrees.

After Tharkay explains matters to the dragons – Laurence rather suspects his translation, because after some sniffs and huffs they suddenly insist on splashing chaotically through the water and screeching around the _Laiska Joutsen_ like depraved crows, though it does not seem to bother the crew – they head aboard.

Peura seems mostly amused.

“Well, that makes a nice wake-up call,” she says. A steady stream of sleepy-eyed women stumble up from below-decks to glower at the ferals. “My office, then?”

Tharkay trails her with raised eyebrows.

As they follow Peura, Laurence pauses. He spots what looks _suspiciously_ like a dart-board – embedded, currently, with three tiny knives – in the flamboyant tricolors. It hangs right by one of the masts, but he supposes Peura has her own notions of safety. That, at least, explains what happened to part of the captured French flag.

The captain's office is less grand than Laurence would expect – but then, pirates give less attention to rank, and at heart Peura will always be a pirate.

The captain _does_ have an amusingly ornate chair behind her desk. It is more of a throne, really, made of fine polished wood. There are strange carvings of nude figures on the arms, and after a brief moment Laurence flushes and resolves not to inspect them too closely.

Peura flings herself sideways on the throne-chair and lazily tosses her legs over the arm. “I expect you're here to tell us about the dragons,” she says. Addressing Tharkay: “Are they yours, then?”

To his credit Tharkay seems completely unfazed by this mode of address. He answers Peura's questions without issue as she demands to know their providence and names, if they have a history of man-eating (something Laurence should have asked; Tharkay says that the littlest dragon has a habit of biting people's legs, but only if they are enemies). She seems satisfied by the end of the questions.

“And I suppose you want one on this ship?” she asks. “They are small enough. Not like Temeraire, if you will pardon me. I think the girls would like it quite fine.”

“There ought to be enough ships to spread them about,” Laurence says. “And that will cause less strain, anyway. Though I am concerned that Captain Ferreira's new friends may object.”

“Oh, they have worked with couriers; give them the smallest dragons and they'll make on fuss. As for the _Amitie..._ ”

They quiz Tharkay on the temperaments of the ferals and assign the dragons to their ships. Laurence does not truly anticipate any opposition from the fleet; every ship has become accustomed to Temeraire, and he is well-liked.

The meeting concludes with Peura offering them both rooms for as long as the _Wenglong_ is stuck in harbor. It is a bit of an awkward formality – Laurence intended to rejoin the _Amitie_ for awhile – but he cannot refuse an offer so generously extended, and accepts. Tharkay does as well, and Peura finally waves them out, telling them they are free to find their berths without her, because Laurence knows the way, yes?

Laurence shows Tharkay around the ship. Laurence is fortunate that all his crews are accustomed to Temeraire, because there is only minimal fuss about the ferals being apportioned through the ships. Already he can see women on the _Laiska Joutsen_ piling up to stroke a little female named Gherni.

As they walk Laurence finds his new officer sneaking glances. “Did you have something to say, Mr. Tharkay?” he asks.

The man frowns for a moment. “Call me Tenzing,” he says at last. “It is nothing, only – you are not quite what I expected.”

Laurence tilts his head. He seems to hear that a lot, these days.

“You may call me Will,” he says.

“Will,” Tharkay echoes. “...Do you know, Will, that I have always wanted to try my hand at privateering?”

* * *

 

They arrange to take half the fleet into port to retrieve supplies and check on the _Wenglong._ Half the ships, along with the ferals, bob out in harbor as they dock.

But Temeraire, in the absence of as ship large enough to carry him, is forced to lie in the shallows. His presence frightens away half a dozen fishing-boats, though there is another Chinese merchant-vessel that creeps as close to him as possible. The sailors on this ship routinely appear over the railing to throw flowers and rice in his direction.

Tharkay reveals himself to have a skill for languages and swears that he speaks the native tongue fluently. Laurence takes him ashore as a translator, and they are immediately ushered to the governor to argue about Temeraire's presence. The governor seems determined to expel him until Tharkay says something without Laurence's input; the governor then hesitates, glaring.

“What did you tell him?” Laurence asks.

“I simply pointed out that we have another dozen dragons in the harbor,” says Tharkay, “And that they will be hard to manage if your dragon leaves.” Tharkay listens as the glowering official says something else. “Oh, good. He says we may stay two days, and if we still remain on the third, he will have us shot.”

Laurence decides to accept this compromise, mostly because it seems rather rude to point out that they could probably capture the port within a few hours. “Very well. Pray give him our thanks; we ought to see Pan Zhong now. Hopefully they have met a better welcome.”

Pan Zhong is delighted to meet someone who can translate between English and Mandarin, surprised but relieved to welcome Tharkay to the crew as translator and general dragon-wrangler. He talks to Tharkay at length, who finally tells Laurence that the ship _can_ be repaired, but it will take at least three months.

Laurence is dismayed. There is no other ship in the fleet large enough to carry Temeraire.

Pan Zhong says something else. It makes Tharkay look at the man curiously, translating, “He says they have written back to China, and hope that the Son of Heaven might afford them a better way to serve the great Celestial, as was promised – 'Celestial' is Temeraire's breed, I presume?”

But Laurence just nods, distracted by calculations. “Do they need funds or materials for the repairs?”

Laurence discovers terms with Pan Zhong and finally offers to help finance the repairs. Pan Zhong tries to refuse several times before accepting.

As they leave Laurence confides to Tharkay, “I have not the slightest notion of how to move Temeraire now. I suppose we may return to England; we ought to see if they have new orders, anyway.”

“But that still does not answer the problem,” Tharkay points out.

They walk for a while along the harbor. The Chinese merchants are still showering flowers on Temeraire, who is bemused but pleased. The rest of the ships have moved farther away, notably including a 'raft' used for pulling livestock across the ocean. This structure is simply a flat square of wood with raised sides. The animals aboard mill and cry wildly, probably due to Temeraire's scent.

“I hope the ferals have already eaten,” Tharkay mutters. But Laurence stops, transfixed.

That... might work.

* * *

  
Temeraire is tremendously discouraged by the raft.

“It took three days to build,” he sighs. “And, look; we will be so slow. I am sure I can fit on the _Amitie_ again, Laurence.”

The _Amitie_ is one of the ships pulling his raft. Captain Nunes, helping Laurence check the structure for stability, pauses. “With all respect,” says the man, “...No.”

Temeraire huffs.

“I suppose it will do,” Laurence sighs at last. Temeraire is right; the raft is both slow and ugly, and he cannot be pleased with this compromise.

“You also promised to leave by tonight,” Nunes adds. “We ought not quarrel with the town, Sir. The ships will all be slowed with Temeraire so compromised.”

Temeraire perks up. “Oh, is this one of your predictions?”

“Predictions?”

“Captain Araullo said that you are Romani,” Temeraire says, “and that you know the future.”

“Romani?” asks Nunes blankly. “I'm not Romani – though I'm not sure why that would matter. My grandmother was Russian, however?”

Temeraire says what Laurence is trying to refrain from saying: “But you are always predicting our disasters!”

“I do not see why being Romani, or not, would matter.” Nunes stares at them as though they are absurd. Hearing this all said aloud, Laurence flushes for shame. “And, sir,” Nunes adds at long last. “It does not require any gift of foresight to know that _you_ will find yourselves in trouble!”

* * *

 

The raft built, they meet with Captain Pan Zhong one final time.

“He apologizes profusely for failing you,” Tharkay says. “You do have a way of attracting followers, Captain Laurence. Have you ever given thought to staging a coup? Or perhaps starting a religion?”

Laurence ignores this commentary; he is becoming accustomed to it. “Pray tell him that we do not blame him in the least. I am only glad the crew is well.”

Tharkay does so; Pan Zhong seems greatly relieved. He also tells them, very earnestly, that he has attempted to make up for the _Wenglong's_ absence by soliciting the other Chinese ships in port. Two merchants and their escort-ship have volunteered to join the fleet.

Laurence takes a moments to cradle his head in his hand, but Tharkay says something which sounds vaguely approving – and amused. Pan Zhong doesn't seem offended.

“If nothing else,” Tharkay adds as Laurence tries to collect himself, “I suppose I shall always be needed as a translator. Especially among this ragtag fleet of yours.”

“I expect we will be glad to have you before long,” Laurence says. Temeraire is exceptional, but he would certainly struggle against a trained patrol of dragons. With the addition of the ferals they might reasonably defend themselves from any aerial attack, and Tharkay is vital to working with them.

“I suspect we will have an interesting time together. But there is something I must say, and it ought to be addressed before we leave port.” Here Tharkay frowns. “I have spent some time with the dragons, and I hope I may offer you more than a few translations. Now, if you are going to keep at this privateering business I imagine we will find ourselves fighting dragons eventually. And in that instance you will need to be capable of more than straight flights and twists; Temeraire is too greatly impeded when you ride him. I can help you devise a proper harness, if you like – or at least something a bit more sturdy than that.” He eyes the leather around Temeraire's neck with a bit of disdain. “It would be best to gather the materials now, before we leave.”

“I am not certain about a _harness,”_ Laurence says. He remembers quite well the preposterously complex contraption that fit over Captain Little's Yellow Reaper, and he cannot imagine any single man using it with comfort. “ - But perhaps we may contrive something a bit more practical.”

Tharkay tilts his head. “...When I first met them, I occasionally flew with the ferals,” Tharkay says. Laurence rather suspects that the man is closer to those wild creatures than he likes to admit. “As they have no harnesses, I instead made _myself_ a sort of harness, and kept a very long loop of leather which could be clipped to it. I would often jump from one dragon to the next - The dragons can grab this leather and wind it around their arm if I switch to them.”

“It would still not be pleasant to fall,” Laurence muses. That would prevent a man from plummeting toward the ground, but dangling from a dragon – probably in mid-battle, and thus being swung around... it is an unpleasant image.

Pan Zhong listens closely to these speculations. “Captain,” he says, voice thickly accented. “I have... hmm. Tool? I do not know the word. But we have something for this, in China, that may help you.”

Tharkay translates his description of the object, which they receive with growing disbelief. Pan Zhong insists on bringing up several of his sailors – all of the women on the crew, actually – to corroborate.

Finally Tharkay says, “Well – I suppose that is another option.”

* * *

 

They depart port. The feral dragons jeer tremendously at Temeraire as he is lugged along behind the _Laiska Joutsen._ For his part Tharkay seems utterly at home among the ship of women – and they _certainly_ seem fond of him – but Laurence is a bit restless. He cannot walk the deck without blushing at the sight of so many ladies climbing the rigging in billowing pants, or clambering across the deck with only shirts tied round their waists.

So at last Laurence resolves to try out Pan Zhong's gift.  
“When you die,” says Tharkay as he watches these preparations, “Who do you suppose will command these ships? The ferals will be upset if they are separated. I vote for Captain Sala. Peura does very well as your second, of course, but he seems to have a good head for management...”

Laurence shoots him an exasperated look. He does not think that Mr. Tharkay _really_ expects this endeavor to end so disastrously; the man keep stepping around Laurence and prodding at his new garment almost wistfully, as though he would like to try this Chinese invention too.

After their conversation and Pan Zhong's survey of his crew, especially among the ex-military women, they made a rough design and found a bemused seamstress in the port to help them. That woman managed to construct a suit that Pan Zhong deemed 'acceptable'.

It is used, he explained to Laurence, by some Chinese women who fly with dragons – evidently it is _only_ women that serve in their Aerial division. The contraption is a full-body suit, layered carefully to catch air when a person falls, with flaps of cloth connecting the arms and legs. These pull taut when a person outstretches their limbs and catches the wind like a sail.

Or like the wings of a dragon.

Laurence feels vaguely ridiculous, though the odd uniform is at least black, and dark enough to hide it's strangeness at a glance. The Chinese also insisted on giving him a dark robe to go with the ensemble – one of the sort that can be easily pulled off in a rush. In case he falls from dragon-back, Pan Zhong told him helpfully, and needs to 'fly' in short order.

“This would be a great impediment to sword-fighting,” Tharkay decrees. “If you do plan to fight with it, anyway.”

“Let us see if it works before making amendments to the Chinese design.”

Temeraire lifts Laurence easily from the ship and waits for him to latch on before leaping into the air.

Temeraire plans to practice a few maneuvers today, too. His current method of leaving the water is exhausting and time-consuming, but they should not depend on the raft. Without the _Wenglong_ he will need to be able to safely land on water, and reenter the air, unless they want to risk his drowning on a long voyage. Laurence does not trust the raft at all – one good gale could smash it to bits.

The _Laiska Joutsen_ soon bobs small and distant behind them. Laurence sheds his Chinese robe, tying it to Temeraire's collar to avoid waste. Laurence fully trusts Temeraire to catch him if something goes wrong, but still he hesitates on the dragon's shoulder awhile. Jumping into empty air goes against every instinct he possesses.

After a minute of gentle flying the Celestial twists his head around. “Laurence?” the dragon prompts. “I think we are high enough now. Is something wrong?”

Laurence winces. He does not want to explain that simple cowardice has held him back. “No, my dear,” he says. “Just keep close – I do not quite trust this invention.”

“Oh, I will catch you if it breaks,” says Temeraire with great confidence. “But I am sure Pan Zhong would not mislead us.”

“Of course,” says Laurence. Unable to justify further prevarication, he takes a long breath and jumps forward, trying to imagine that he is boarding a ship with water just below.

It is no use, though. He plummets and immediately feels the air stolen from his lungs, wind whipping at his face too fast to regain it. The world spins in a dizzying swirl of color – waves on one side, the sky and clouds on the other, with Temeraire only a disconcerting blur of dark scales.

He recalls Pan Zhong's advice and extends his arms and legs. It doesn't seem to slow him, but Laurence does at least stop spinning. After a disorienting second he realizes his head is tilted toward the sea – he is diving straight down.

With great difficulty Laurence tilts back his arms, pushing his legs forward in the same motion. It hurts more than expected. Wind catches in the strange glider-suit, pulling taut like sails in a storm. The force is so great it actually pushes him up a few feet before he continues to fall.

But he falls more slowly now. Pan Zhong said that an experienced aviator could slow their fall so that every three meters forward would also put them about one meter down. Laurence has no good way of measuring his progress – he certainly _seems_ to be falling much faster than that – but he is equally certain that he has slowed a little. He risks craning his head to look for Temeraire, but it's almost unnecessary as the dragon appears next to him.

It's fortunate that Temeraire can hover; he is forced to rotate his wings in odd, jolting motions to keep pace with Laurence's fall. “Oh, you are doing very well,” the dragon approves. “Or at least I think you are. It is a pity you cannot fly; perhaps if you flap your arms?”

“I think it is a bit more difficult than that,” Laurence manages. His voice is a bit more strained than he intends, and is anyway lost in the roar of wind; his outstretched arms prickle with numbness. “I believe that is long enough.”

Temeraire chooses not to argue. His easy compliance is good but unusual; perhaps the dragon is also uneasy to see a human in flight. He swiftly swerves below Laurence, who realizes belatedly that he does not know how to land. In the end he stumbles and ends up falling awkwardly onto Temeraire's back, very glad that no one else is around to see.

Laurence latches himself back to the harness.

“Well?” Temeraire asks. “Did you enjoy it? I quite like flying, even better than swimming; I think humans should all have wings.”

“You might as well say that all birds should breathe water,” Laurence says, “or all fish breathe air.”

“Well that would be useful, too,” Temeraire agrees.

Temeraire circles the water almost experimentally as they talk, soon skimming the surface. He seems suddenly self-conscious of the ferals jeering from the distant ships; they are now a little closer after their descent. At last he lowers himself into the water. Despite his gentle flying the water crashes beneath them and sends up a sharp spray. The dragon snorts and shakes his head. “Laurence, it is very hard to fly with wet wings, and with nothing to push away with.”

Laurence shakes out his still-aching arms. He has an idea. “Try flying forward, my dear – as though you are trying to fly in a straight line, along the surface.”

Temeraire uses his wings to propel forward. The result is a bit awkward and certainly noisy, causing a tremendous splashing. But Temeraire seems to get the idea. After a few seconds he beats his wings harder, chest rising slowly from the surface. Laurence clutches his carabiner as Temeraire wobbles in his flight, rushing from the water like a swan and finally pushing himself into open air.

Temeraire is winded but pleased. “Oh, that is a bit easier,” he breathes. “Though I hope we must never do it in battle, Laurence; it is still not very pleasant.”

“But at least you can do it,” Laurence says. He is more relieved than he can express; thoughts of Temeraire drowning have haunted him, though he will not say it. “We must only hope that the _Wenglong_ can follow us soon,” though it will likely be many months before that happens.

“Perhaps we can fly a bit more,” Temeraire suggests. His voice is oddly apprehensive, a mystery made clear when he adds, “Just the two of us?”

Laurence's immediate reply dies in his throat. It _has_ been a long while since they flew together – for pure enjoyment, that is, and not business.

“Of course, my dear,” he says at last. “As long as you wish.”

* * *

 

The rest of the week is occupied with training the ferals.

This is not a particularly successful endeavor. Temeraire himself has no formal training, and Tharkay, who can best communicate with the smaller dragons, has rarely worked with other aerial forces.

But evidently it is common practice for Chinese merchants to accept retired aerial officers. One of the ships Pan Zhong sent with them boasts two female crewwomen, both of whom are pleased at the opportunity to come aboard the _Laiska Joutsen_ and consult with Temeraire. They spend a great deal of time flattering him in Mandarin and utterly ignoring Laurence's attempts to extract their intelligence But eventually they are convinced to share a few simple maneuvers. Laurence's strategic experience is wholly different due to the fact that ships cannot move up or down, but he starts to recognize weaknesses and flaws among the dragon's movements. He will have to sit down properly with Temeraire and Tharkay to sketch out the most effective formations.

First, though, the ferals must accept the inevitability of drill-flying. And learn how to read signals, rather than ignoring the inconvenient ones.

“If only we could speak to them properly,” Laurence says as Arkady sniffs toward a discouraged woman from the _Laiska Joutsen._ “With dragons on most ships we really must be able to communicate.”

“Do not let them fool you,” Tharkay advises. “They are more cunning than they like to appear. I suspect Arkady, at least, can understand a decent amount of English. It is only that it can be easier to pretend ignorance.”

Laurence frowns. That is another problem, then. No amount of time or education will improve the ferals if they are simply resistant. A dragon cannot be flogged or subdued with poor rations. They will have to find some method of inducement, though. “I fear we are going to be a very irregular fleet,” he muses aloud. “I am not sure if the Crown will approve of this.”

At this Tharkay gives Laurence a look he cannot decipher. “Captain Laurence,” he says. “You are aware, are you not, that most pirates do not have formal ranks among the crews? Or many rules, in general? You run your ships like a wartime fleet, if a much kinder and happier one than the English navy; you are already irregular enough to invite scrutiny.”

Laurence is taken aback. Of course he knows that many of the ships in his convoy were once pirates, and others merchants. But somehow it is easy to forget. Under his leadership roles have been assigned to prevent confusion; he never questioned the necessity of this, never thought to consider whether the ships would accept common navy organization, even as he fretted over the differences that might arise between so many different cultures. “Is anyone dissatisfied with the management of the fleet?”

“Not at all,” says Tharkay. “Which is precisely why I am surprised. You have an astonishingly loyal group, especially given the range of peoples in your crew. Although I think the Chinese mostly stay for Temeraire.”

“I am aware,” Laurence says.. “On that note, I have meant to ask for some lessons in the language. I will need it if we are to continue working with Pan Zhong.”

“I will do you better,” Tharkay says.

The man explains his idea. He _will_ teach Laurence Chinese, but more importantly, he wants to teach him Durzagh.

Laurence is baffled by the notion until Tharkay explains further – he wants to teach _everyone_ Durzagh.

“I first had the notion because each ship must communicate with the ferals, as you said,” Tharkay begins, “And it is clear those dragons have no interest in other languages, so this is the easiest alternative. But more importantly it will be a language that no one else understands. I do not propose everyone become fluent. But learning common commands, especially ship terms, would be invaluable.”

After some consideration Laurence agrees. It has the added bonus that no one will feel slighted that _their_ language was not chosen as a sort of lingua franca. Everyone can agree on the need to corral their wild dragons.

And Laurence must admit, he will feel far better when he can actually communicate with the entire fleet. Without resorting to Temeraire, that is.

* * *

 

They get a chance to test the ferals a few weeks later. The fleet has made slow progress toward England, and now, still far Southwest of the Channel, they spy two French sails on the horizon.

Arkady, bloodthirsty creature that he is, wants to fly off immediately. He has become increasingly disenchanted with the ships after a few bouts of sea-sickness, but Tharkay frequently soothes the ferals by spinning tales of gold and treasure. All the smaller dragons are eager for a real fight. It is all Tharkay can manage to calm the mid-weight long enough to climb to his neck before Arkady leaps into the air.

Laurence meanwhile takes a moment to confer with Peura. Sulking in his raft, Temeraire gazes wistfully after the ferals. “Do not bother cutting the raft away,” Peura says. “He will need it again later, and we are not the fastest ship; I daresay the rest will make short work of those Frenchies before we could get close.”

“Once I am in the air,” Temeraire says, “We will not even need the fleet. Let us hurry, Laurence, or Arkady will take care of them and I am _sure_ he will be insufferable about it.”

Temeraire leaps to the air as soon as Laurence has latched to his collar. He still feels awkward and ungainly in his Chinese clothing, yet also safer. If nothing else his constant, suicidal practicing has inured him to any fear of flight.

The first of the two French ships is shooting wildly in every direction by the time they approach. Seven of the ferals are diving at it under Arkady's encouragement, tearing around the ship in such a frantic flurry that no one can get a clear aim. One of the smaller dragons screams as a man gets a lucky shot that pierces his wing. It's just a normal rifle-wound, which does little damage to even a small dragon, but Wringe dives down and raises the man screaming into the air. She shakes the man with her back legs and and tosses him into the sea.

Laurence frowns. “Well,” he says. “I suppose they are doing fine, Temeraire. And I think it is time you tried something new.”

“Oh! Yes, I quite agree.”

“Let us ensure the other dragons are clear first.”

Only a few ferals are darting about the second ship. They peel away reluctantly at Temeraire's command. The Celestial flies high to avoid the ship's desperate cannon-fire; it falls quite short of him, and at last stops entirely. Not even the best cannon can shoot straight into the air. They hover over the ship for an uncertain moment. “I am not sure how to do it,” Temeraire admits nervously.

“If you miss,” Laurence says, “You can just as well tear off their mast.”

“Oh! Well I never said I would _miss._ ” And, affronted, Temeraire tucks his wings into a dive.

Temeraire's skin seems to stretch queerly as they fall. The dragon aims himself straight at the deck, ignoring shouts and screams from below. Evidently the men fear a sort of suicide-run. But Temeraire's intentions are quite different.

Pan Zhong and the Chinese crew have, of course, told stories about the Divine Wind. Laurence discredited them entirely until Temeraire's voice starting getting louder. Sometimes when he shouts the dragon's voice has a ringing, resonant tone. Laurence thought he was prepared – expected that this roar, if it did anything at all, might simply stun the Frenchmen and make it easier to capture their ship.

Instead the world flares white. Laurence finds himself swaying uselessly in his seat, fortunately clutching his carabiners, as his ears ring. The sight below them doesn't make sense for a moment. The ship is crumpling in on itself, waves coming over the edges as water siphons over the deck. The ship is broken, Laurence realizes at last. Temeraire's roar crumpled it straight under the ocean's waves.

Within a minute the ship disappears under the water, leaving a smooth and glassy surface that gives no hint to the lost lives below.

“Oh,” says Temeraire, very small.

Laurence looks up. Arkady has perched himself on the other ship, triumphant, with a white flag of surrender between his claws.

“I hope,” Laurence says at last, “That Pan Zhong is able to meet us in England; I think we ought to prepare some questions for him.”

* * *

 

“I like having prisoners,” Peura muses. “It's excellent for morale.”

They have treated the prisoners with all civility, of course, but occasionally Laurence overhears some of the women jeering and taunting the men below. He has made the decision to ignore it; this is Peura's ship after all.

“I suppose you will keep this ship, as well?” Tharkay asks. “Or sell it to the British? I confess I am not familiar with the terms of privateering.”

“We may keep it or sell it; either way we shall receive prize-money from the Crown for capturing an enemy vessel.”

“And just in time, too,” Peura says. “Payment for the crew aside, I expect you _will_ need to sell off some of these ships if you mean to purchase a transport for Temeraire. If such a transport can be found.”

It is a legitimate concern. Laurence looks back to where Temeraire sulks on his raft, bobbing behind the slow _Laiska Joutsen_ like a forgotten anchor. Perhaps the navy might have an unused dragon-transport to trade? Yet such a ship would not be released easily, especially by the ever-suspicious British Navy. “We ought to be coming across British patrols soon,” Laurence says aloud. Frowns. “ - No, that is not right. We ought to have seen some sign of the blockade already.”

Their aim is Portsmouth, which boasts a large naval-dockyard that ought to be capable of housing their growing fleet – not to mention the recent prizes. It should be easy to report to the admiralty from there, too.

But Laurence dislikes this quiet. He has sailed the Channel many times, and something is plainly strange. “I am going aloft with Temeraire,” he decides.

“Let me grab a dragon and come with you,” Tharkay says. He has evidently noticed Laurence's worry. “Just a moment.”

Arkady declares himself exhausted from a difficult day of fishing and sleeping, so Tharkay convinces another feral to take him to the air. Temeraire is equally pleased to leave. Within minutes the _Laiska Joutsen_ is a faint spot far below, like a child's-toy on a streambed.

From the sky it is easy to spy other ships – but still the Channel seems quiet. No one raises an alarm as they fly; evidently word has gotten around, and the navy must recognize Temeraire's unique coloration.

Laurence _hopes_ that is why no one raises an alarm.

They do see a few small sloops patrolling the shores as they fly further along. At last the general desertion is explained when they approach Portsmouth. There are almost two-dozen ships in the port or nearby, ranging from small gun-ships to a first-rate ship of the line.

Laurence appraises the scene with growing unease. A line of ships protecting the port, multiple frigates in dock, and boats ceaselessly moving between combat-vessels and the shore. It is easy enough to understand the situation; there is a meeting of captains, which means the admiralty must be organizing something. An attack, or a defense against an expected incursion.

He knows why the waters have been so quiet, now – Britain is preparing against invasion. It is only the calm before the storm.

Laurence does not quite dare take Temeraire straight to the port. They might be recognized as an ally, but they are not part of the Corps, and in such a heightened state of anxiety the navy may well interpret his arrival as a threat.

But there is a covert in Portsmouth, too. After some contemplation Laurence directs Temeraire there. Tharkay's feral decides it has done enough flying and comes forward to rest on Temeraire's back, allowing him to finish the journey alone.

Two Yellow-Reapers appear to escort them the final length. Temeraire swivels his head to observe them eagerly. The dragons are both much larger than even Arkady, and certainly their rigid, battle-ready postures speak of greater discipline. But the dragons are not inclined to chat. Temeraire is led to an empty clearing well-apart from the other dragons. As soon as they land Laurence and Tharkay jump to the ground and a weary-looking Captain strides up to greet them.

“William Laurence, I presume. I am Captain Rivers. I assume you are here to assist in our defense?”

“We are willing to assist, Captain, but we are here primarily for information. Myself and Mr. Tharkay here - “ Laurence nods to introduce his companion, though Tharkay just shoots him a dour look “ - could not help but notice the ships in dock. Has something happened?”

The captain gives Laurence a long look. Abruptly Laurence remembers that he is wearing his Chinese robes, and he flushes.

Evidently the captain decides to give him an explanation, bizarre appearance aside. “Not here,” he says. “It is Dover. We have just had word. Half the fleet has diverted west, thinking Boney was sending a force there, but it is all a rouse. The real fighting will be at Dover and so we are heading out direct. Though I don't know if we will reach the fighting in time; we will send a few dragons as well, of course, but we do not want to leave the port undefended.”

“Then we will fly straight to Dover and coordinate at once,” Laurence says. “Mr. Tharkay, will you return to the fleet and speak with Captain Peura? They must take every measure to increase speed if we will reach Dover by tomorrow.”

It is possible, Laurence calculates, if the wind stays fair. Some of the slower ships may lag, though, and worse than that there is no surety of when the battle will happen. One can never rely on such things.

“I will go,” Tharkay agrees. “And then I will take a fresh dragon and try to meet you at Dover.”

This plan greatly alarms Captain Rivers, rousing him from his apparent weariness to ask, “How many dragons with your fleet?”

“Thirteen counting Temeraire,” Laurence says.

Captain Rivers stares at him in what appears to be mute horror. “Good lord,” he says at last. “ - Well, at least _Dover_ will deal with you, and not us.”

* * *

Tharkay has not yet caught-up by the time Temeraire flies over Dover. This time a full formation of dragons appears to menace Temeraire, but after several shouted explanations they agree to fly Laurence down to the port on a small Grey Copper. Temeraire offers that he might swim in port in the meantime, a suggestion that seems to bewilder the formation so much that they agree with little argument.

The Grey Copper is a nervous creature named Dulcia. Captain Warren greets him with a bemused handshake. “I have heard of you, of course; and he _is_ quite impressive,” this last with an appreciative glance at Temeraire. “Well! We will get you down in just a minute. I expect you'll have those navy-fellows demanding a word at once, without any effort. They do not much like it when dragons land nearby, even the little couriers, so you are free to deal with _that_.”

True to his word Warren orders Dulcia aloft as soon as Laurence is on the ground. Almost at once Laurence is surrounded by disapproving marines and naval-officers. A vaguely familiar lieutenant demands his name, and after Laurence's explanation skeptically offers to have him taken to the flagship by boat. The captains are holding council there.

The _HMS Formidable_ is a 90-gun vessel from the _Barfleur_ class. As he arrives a midshipman shows Laurence to the captain's quarters without bothering to ask after his business. The room is crammed, even though it is apparent that a bulkhead has been knocked down to fit all the attendees.

The riot of voices makes it hard to determine who is in charge, but eventually Laurence locates Admiral Barhal by virtue of his rank. The man is leaning over half a dozen maps and letters, arguing with two captains Laurence only vaguely recognizes. He shoulders his way past a few other officers.

Laurence gains a few askance looks for his dress – he _still_ wears the bluish-black robes gifted to him by the _Wenglong_ – but everyone is too preoccupied to give him much note.

“And one frigate here, I think,” Barhal jabs a finger at the map. “The _Athena,_ then. Though devil knows if they try coming from the west - “ Finally Barhal seems to see Laurence. “You! Who are you, then?”

“Captain William Laurence, Sir, of – Temeraire. I command a number of privateers. We have come to aid England.”

“Very good,” says the man absently. He glances again at his paper and marks something down. “How many among your complement, then?”

“Eighteen ships and thirteen dragons, Sir; but only three frigates among them. I can give the specifications to your aide, but they all have some number of guns.”

The admiral nods once. Nods again. Pauses. “Dragons?” he asks. Then: “I beg your pardon: _how_ many?”

“Eighteen ships,” Laurence replies patiently. “I regret that the rest of our number is out of reach.” The admiral stares at him. “We have one heavy-weight, three mid-weights, and nine light-weights. Please bear in mind they are accustomed to fighting against ships and not dragons, but we are prepared to supplement the Corps or defend against Aerial attack if necessary.”

“Yes, certainly,” says the admiral in the same blank tone. He clears his throat. “The devil, man, are you playing with me? This is no time for jests.”

“Sir, I would hardly joke about such a thing.”

One of the other officers present clears his throat. “Sir, perhaps I might see to the ships and report their use?”

“ - I – Yes. Yes. Probably just dinghys,” the admiral says, half to himself. “Three frigates – hah!” he shakes his head. “Go on, Mr. Hornblower – well, what are you waiting for?”

Laurence leaves with the young Captain. Hornblower side-eyes him. “If you are speaking truly, you will nearly double our numbers,” he says at last.

“That is our intent,” says Laurence.

Gherni, being one of the more biddable ferals – and less likely to terrify than Temeraire – waits outside on the dock. There is a wide empty space about her, and Tharkay lounges on her shoulder in the sun, toying with a knife and looking for all the world that he might be on holiday.

“There you are,” he calls, seeing Laurence. Hornblower, now a little green, stares at the dragon in mute horror; he evidently understands that they mean to fly. “I don't suppose they plan to actually fight sometime soon? The ferals are getting restless.”

“Ferals?” asks Hornblower faintly. “Do I understand, Sir, that you have ferals fighting with you? Feral dragons, next to the city?”

“Yes. They fly under Mr. Tharkay's command.”

“As much as a feral will take orders, anyway,” says Tharkay. This does not seem to reassure Hornblower.

But the captain takes a deep breath, visibly steels himself, and accepts Temeraire's offer to be raised to the dragon's back. His face blanches to the color of rotted milk when Temeraire delicately grabs hold of him, but the captain stumbles onto the dragon's back with reasonable grace, even if he does shudder like he wants to retch.

“I am afraid we do not have a harness,” Laurence adds belatedly, climbing up Temeraire's shoulder without issue. “But Temeraire can fly quite steady.”

“Though it is a bit windy,” comments Tharkay. Laurence shoots him a severe look – poor Hornblower looks ready to faint – but Tharkay only raises his eyebrows.

Hornblower steadies a little as they fly. Temeraire is indeed very careful, flying low and easily in the direction of the fleet.

The ships are still many miles out from Dover, but ought to be within a few miles of the shore in perhaps three hours. With Temeraire it takes much less time for them to reach the ships. Hornblower straightens as the first sail appears – then another, and another.

“My god,” he says, unflatteringly surprised. “Eighteen ships, as you said; how did you find them, Sir?”

“Some by capture – others chose to sign on with us,” Laurence says. Tharkay throws him another odd, ironic look that Laurence cannot decipher. “And Mr. Tharkay has made friends with these ferals; they are not as trained as those from the Corps, of course, but they are quite willing to fight.”

Even as he speaks Arkady spots them from the deck of the _Laiska Joutsen._ He peels into the air followed by four other dragons, all of them hurrying to greet Temeraire and demand news.

The sight of the circling dragons seems to make Hornblower queasy again. “Perhaps,” the man says miserably, “We might set down? Just for a moment?”

* * *

  
They leave Tharkay behind to herd the ferals and return Mr. Hornblower to the admiralty, who are startled but pleased to realize Laurence is not, in fact, a madman. They at once start plotting to include his ships in the battle-lines, and Laurence is asked for his input on how the ships may best be divided.

He can give advice, hut Laurence has to inform them that he, himself, will not be with the ships, “Although of course I will keep abreast of their movements. I must remain with my dragon. All communications should go through the _Laiska Joutsen_ and Captain Peura.”

“The captain is experienced, I hope?”

“Yes – she has captained her own ship for more than a decade, I believe.”

Laurence realizes the slip immediately.

“She?” echoes Admiral Barhal.

Now Laurence must recant, or commit fully.

“I trust her entirely,” he says.

A brief silence. At last Barhal huffs. “Well – we cannot turn away any help,” the man says. “Suppose the woman will have a first officer, eh? Well then.”

Laurence says nothing. If these men cannot conceive of the idea, he will not point out that Peura's first-mate is also a woman.

* * *

 

> _To Cpt. William Laurence, lately of the Amitie:_
> 
> _I am writing on behalf of myself and Cpt. Abiodun. We have captured four more ships since our Departure, two of them French and two slavers; we have put fire to three more slaver ships, deemed Unsuitable for further use. By the Grace of God we may find more._
> 
> _Abiodun urges you to join us at the port of Lagos; you may address a messenger there to Mr. Carver to reach us. There are things that must be discussed in person. Abiodun seems incredibly disturbed by what we have learned about the tribes in the Interior. I know it seems strange to think such far-away Matters may be significant in wartime, yet I think what we have found would be of great interest to all our peoples. Pray come as soon as possible._
> 
> _In Your Service,_
> 
> _Cpt. Vicario_

 

Laurence considers the strange letter as the fleet drifts closer to Dover. It was gifted to them by a relieved messenger just as they left Portsmouth, and he has been turning it over for hours now. Viccario is not an Englishman, and he has probably never needed to write the tedious and official reports so common to Navy captains. It is not unexpected that he is ignorant of the forms. Yet Laurence can not imagine any circumstances necessitating so strange a request, much less one shrouded in such secrecy.

“All that flying back and forth was quite dull,” Temeraire interrupts his musings. Ruffling his wings, the dragon adds, “But this is almost worse. Laurence, surely we can fly ahead?”

Laurence glances automatically toward the _Laiska Joutsen._ He does not like being set so apart with Temeraire, which means he is consequentially unable to consult with the fleet. But he trusts Peura, who at any rate will have to command once they are in the air. “My dear, you have flied enough today. And more importantly you have never flown in a serious battle.”

“Oh! Of course I have.” Temeraire lowers his ruff in affront. “I have captured many ships.”

“Yes, but fighting against other dragons is something quite different. And this will not be a brief skirmish; if we get there in time there may be dozens of dragons in the air.”

 _“If_ we get there in time,” Temeraire emphasizes. Yet just a minute later the dragon straightens, suddenly straining his neck forward. “Oh! Do you hear it, Laurence? I think those are gunshots. Surely we can fly _now?_ ”

Temeraire cranes his head toward the air, wings flapping against his back in his eagerness. Laurence follows his gaze and is startled to see a small, dark cloud of dragons moving over the Channel in the distance.

Laurence's line of ships is escorted by the _HMS Grasshopper,_ a fast little cutter whose crew will know the recent signals and help make it clear who they support; it would not do any good to arrive at the battle and be fired-upon by paranoid British ships.

There is a blockade of English vessels, milling in strange ways. Laurence at first cannot understand the activity. There are no French transports on the sea, so it seems evident that the invasion hasn't started.

Then Temeraire asks, “Oh, what are those dragons carrying?” and Laurence pays more attention to the sky.

The French dragons are still far away, and moving with an odd slowness easily explained by the heavy wooden blocks carried by groups of four. Laurence stares at the strange procession for a moment, baffled, before horror sinks in. The invasion is not coming by sea at all; the _dragons_ are carrying men across.

“Temeraire,” Laurence says, “Pray tell Captain Peura to focus the cannons toward the sky, as much as possible.”

The dragon does so in a booming voice that shudders with echoes of the Divine Wind. Meanwhile Laurence ascends Temeraire's back, latching himself hurriedly to the dragon's collar. He glances toward the _Laiska Joutsen_ to find Peura waving absently at Temeraire's explanation; evidently she understands the French movements, too.

It is no wonder that the British ships are in such disarray. They have no clear enemy, and most of the fighting will occur well above their heads. Fortunately, this does not render their aid useless.

“Where is Mr. Tharkay?” Laurence muses aloud.

“With Arkady – oh, he is waving to us.”

“Let us collect the ferals, then. We ought to enter the fighting together.”

Temeraire leaps into the air, joined moments later by Arkady. On his back Tharkay carries a speaking trumpet to magnify his voice, shouting in Durzagh as the dragons make a slow circuit of the fleet. The other ferals rise to join them, lining willingly behind Temeraire's massive hulk.

Half the English dragons split away as they approach, milling a bit in their own confusion. Glancing back Laurence can see the _Grasshopper_ signaling frantically. “Temeraire, pray tell them we are friendly. We have no colors to signify our allegiance.”

Temeraire's voice shudders with an echo of the Divine Wind as he shouts. “Hello! We are here to help you, not to kill you!”

Laurence winces. But the gesture seems to work, at least. He can still hear Tharkay corralling the ferals (Laurence is not yet fluent in Durzagh, but it sounds like he's telling them that these are _not_ the dragons they need to chase from the territory, and no, they will not get any prizes if they attack early.) After some brief hesitation the English dragons resume their formations, sans one Yellow Reaper who flies over. After a moment Laurence recognizes him as Immortalis, the mid-weight who greeted Temeraire almost a year ago at the shore.

“We were warned you were coming,” Immortalis says. “But we did not expect your friends.”

“We were not entirely sure we would be on time. I am glad we were quick enough.”

“That is nice,” says Immortalis. “But perhaps you should leave? I think we are going to lose, and everyone believes the invasion will be successful anyway.”

Shouting. “Do not _tell_ them that,” cries a distressed voice from the Yellow Reaper's shoulders.

“Well that is why we are here,” Temeraire explains. “So we can help you protect England. Anyway, look at how many dragons are with us! Surely the French cannot have more?”

“I think they can,” Immortalis sighs, “Oh, there is the signal; I must go. Pray tell us if you need anything.”

Immortalis resumes his place among the English dragons with smooth elegance. Temeraire, ruff pricking, glances around at the ferals almost self-consciously. They're flying at completely different paces, all of them jeering and calling at the approaching cloud of French dragons now perhaps a mile out. “Everyone behind me,” Temeraire calls, and the ferals ignore him utterly.

And here is the problem – Laurence fears that Immortalis' prediction was accurate. Looking around, it becomes clear that the French dragons outnumber the English, even despite their presence. The ferals bring their numbers closer to even, but Laurence suspects that their lack of training will soon tell. He checks his carabiner as the two sides draw closer.

“Temeraire,” he calls, making a decision. “Fly high – act only to reinforce the British, and assist dragons in trouble.”

Temeraire stiffens. He does not answer, but he does slant his wings to rise above the British formation. The ferals follow easily. That is something.

Then the fight is upon them.

Laurence has seen dragons fight before. In the navy dragons occasionally came to the aid of ships, or attacked them; more than anything he still vividly recalls the Nile, where he remembers dragons roaring and whirling in the sky above the ships, everyone ducking at shadows overhead due to fear of the fiery Turkish Kaziliks.

Yet this is different. The French do not seem to attack with any organization. They have such numbers they can simply swarm the British, who seem utterly baffled at the tactic. The French have only one goal – to get the transports across the Channel – and so it does not matter if their swift attacks do little damage, so long as they stop the English from advancing.

Temeraire helps when he can, flinging himself down whenever dragons try to flock around a particular target. The ferals offer a shrill, screaming accompaniment, harrying a few of the larger beast in Tharkay's desperate attempt to focus their attacks on the French and avoid friendly-fire. But with a sinking heart Laurence must acknowledge the truth; there is no possible way that the English can win this battle. They simply do not have enough dragons. Perhaps with dedication and cleverness they might tear away one transport, or two; but the invasion will succeed.

“Laurence,” says Temeraire suddenly. “Do you remember that little French ship? The one that burst apart when I roared, and sunk under the waves? I wonder if those transports might fall apart in the same way.”

It takes the words a moment to sink in. “Yes!” he says aloud. “My dear, that may work – pray try to get closer to the front transport, just there - “

Laurence clutches at his carabiner as Temeraire dives to avoid a hostile Petit Chevalier.

The problem is that the French are not their only obstacles. The English dragons seem to have fallen from their usual formations, but they still try to attack in clusters, largely ignoring Temeraire though not disdaining his help. But Temeraire does not have the proper support to assault a transport; he must have a clear aim before he can unleash his roar.

Luckily Laurence spots a likely-looking target far below them.

“Temeraire,” Laurence calls, finally recognizing what must be done. “I am going to jump down to meet with one of the other captains, and tell them about the Divine Wind – when you use it the French will focus their attack. Be careful.”

Temeraire makes a sound of confirmation, still wholly occupied by the Petit Chevalier. Laurence smoothly unlatches himself from the dragon's collar, drops away his Chinese robe, and leaps.

Gliding in battle is a different experience. He is concerned at every moment that a dragon will run into him, as a man might collide with a fly; it is part of the reason he decided to aim for a large Regal Copper. It seems to be repelling a French boarding-party, but this also means it circles below the main fighting, unlikely to make any wild movements for a few minutes.

Fortunately the boarding-attempt is almost over by the time Laurence lands. He tucks his shoulder and rolls to a halt on the Copper's back, dangerously close to the neck. There is a Frenchman in front of Laurence trying to reach the front, so without hesitating he unsheathes his sword and helps an English midwingmen fight him to surrender. There is another midwingmen, too, but he has abandoned his defense to gawk at Laurence.

Behind them is the captain.

“Good god, where did you come from?” the man demands.

Laurence glances back to confirm that the fighting has finished; there are only a few boarders left, all being shepherded together as prisoners. “I am Captain Laurence, of Temeraire,” he says. “ - The Celestial.”

This draws a look of recognition, though no less confusion. “But how - “

“I am sorry,” Laurence says. “But there is little time to explain. We do not have a means of signaling the Corps, which is why I am here. Temeraire is about to make a pass for the transports by using the Divine Wind.”

“The _what?_ ” asks the captain.

“It is unique to Celestials,” says Laurence impatiently. “As I said, there is no time to explain – suffice to say he can destroy the transports, but the French will focus on him at once when he does so.”

At least this seems to register. “Yes,” says the Captain, “But – oh, damnation. If you are wrong, I suppose we will not be in any worse position. Mr. Dyers! Signal for Captain Harcourt, if you please, 'Defend Celestial - '”

The child waving flags has to spell out 'Celestial', but the order comes not a moment too soon. Look above Laurence sees Temeraire finally break away from the Petit Chevalier to veer toward the lead transport.

He sees Temeraire's sides swell with that familiar, strange pressure as the dragon breathes. Belatedly Laurence reaches down and clips himself to Maximus' harness. He does not know this dragon's movements, and he would not like to be thrown when -

The roar that comes from Temeraire is barely distinguishable as such. Even from far below Temeraire, and even to a person accustomed to the technique, Laurence finds himself wincing away from the wave of sound. Others are less fortunate. Much of the fighting stutters to a confused halt, dragons crashing into each other, and in front of Temeraire two dragons clutching the transport fall away like stones to fall into the sea below.

The great wooden hulk has not shattered, as they planned, but that does not matter. Without support the lead transport slowly tips back. The stunned dragons at its rear fail to hold on, and then all at once it drops into the water. There the weakened wood falls open like an egg, spilling screaming men across the sea. Within seconds the whole thing is swallowed undertow.

The confusion will not last long. “He will attack the second one next,” Laurence says aloud.

Someone says, “Captain Berkley!”, and the man shakes himself from stupor.

“Get behind that Celestial, Maximus,” Captain Berkley shouts. His eyes are alight with new, feverish hope. “Give him a clear path – Mr. Dyers! Repeat that damn signal!”

Dyers does. The dragons over the channel have the English well-outnumbered, but a number risk breaking away to form behind Temeraire, who himself seems entirely unconscious of his sudden help. The Celestial moves in front of the second transport and roars for a second time. And for a second time wood cracks like a gunshot. The dragons at the front, though wailing, do not drop the hulk – butt the bottom gives way, and two-thousand men fall into the ocean.

Laurence shudders with the horror of it as Temeraire moves to the third transport. The dragon is stalled, though, by a sudden swarm of light-weights trying desperately to delay him. Laurence clings to Maximus' harness and watches with relief as a Longwing and Yellow Reaper move to flank him.

“They are calling to retreat!” Dyers calls, and indeed the French seem to be turning around.

But Temeraire is still moving forward, his sides swelling. He has not understood the signal. “Captain Berkley,” Laurence demands. “Do you have a speaking trumpet?”

Berkley does, and a midshipman runs to fetch it. Laurence fumbles when it's shoved into hands. “Temeraire!” he calls.

He repeats that single word – Temeraire, Temeraire – until the dragon jolts to a halt. Hovering mid-air, the Celestial twists around. This movement brings him level with a Defendeur-Brave and Roi-de-Vitesse, both flying toward him. Temeraire releases his roar in a startled burst. The two dragons fall away crying and others rapidly swerve to avoid him.

It is nothing like the stately, practiced sort of combat Laurence remembers seeing in other aerial battles. The whole field is a swarm of swirling wings, and that is probably due to Temeraire himself, he realizes – the dragon is dangerously ignorant of standard military combat. Here, where he is central to the battle, everyone responds to his confusion.

Laurence calls “Temeraire,” again, and finally Temeraire moves away from the transports. The French let him go; dragons fly back to square around the nearest transport, and though a few English dragons feint forward to heckle them, the fighting seems to be over.

After this chaos Temeraire will want to retrieve him immediately. And it would be rather difficult, Laurence think, for the dragon to get close enough to snatch him right from the back of a Regal Copper.

So Laurence unlatches himself from the harness, steps over to Maximus' shoulder, and jumps.

He hears shouting behind him. After a few seconds Laurence spread his arms and allows himself to level out, descending at a fairly slow rate – three meters distance to one meter height, he always remembers Pan Zhong say. A dark shadow passes overhead and Laurence is unceremoniously snatched from the air.

“Oh, did you see it?” Temeraire enthuses. “I think that went quite well, Laurence.”

Laurence looks around at the milling dragons in the air, the alarmed Regal Copper circling above them. “You were marvelous, my dear,” he says honestly. “I hope you are not too tired. We ought to check on the fleet, and then I expect the aviators will want to speak with us.”

* * *

 

“This is excellent,” says Temeraire. His words are oddly muffled as he chews around the bones of his second cow. “Although not quite as nice as whale, I think. Do you suppose we could get some cows for the ships?”

“We will discuss it later,” Laurence assures, and only after re-checking the bandages on Temeraire's side – Dr. Keynes assured him the wounds are shallow – does he allow himself to be brought to Admiral Lenton's office.

Being more familiar with the ferals – a topic sure to arise in this discussion - Tharkay has joined him ashore. But the man escorting them is also familiar. “Lieutenant Granby,” Laurence acknowledges. “You took part in the battle, then? I hope you have been well.”

“Well, yes; though I expect I have not spent my time in such an interesting fashion as you have,” Granby says. “I am unassigned presently. If I might ask...”

Whatever the lieutenant means to say, he is interrupted by a yell.

“You absolute _lunatic!._ ”

Granby startles to a halt. Laurence frowns to see Berkley stomping before them, arms waving as he gesticulates.

“ _Jumping_ ,” Berkley says, “Jumping, from the back of a dragon, in the middle of a fight – who has ever heard of such a thing? We thought you were mad! And what is that damned suit, anyway?”

Laurence is too affronted to answer for a moment, though he reminds himself that the man has a right to be alarmed. It did not occur to Laurence, but, “Does the Corps have nothing similar? I am told that this is quite standard among Chinese aviators. It allows a man to glide instead of falling.”

“Does it really?” asks Granby, inspecting his clothing with new fascination. “I _did_ wonder, but I suppose I don't know how sailors dress.”

“You are a lunatic,” Berkley repeats, though with less rancor. He smacks one hand against Laurence's shoulder, plainly relieved. “And quite welcome to fight with us again, if you should like to perform more miracles in the future.”  
Laurence laughs. The tension in his shoulders, unnoticed til now, eases at the jovial talk. A year ago he might have found the man's frankness a little off-putting, and indeed it still feels strange coming from an officer. But spending months with pirates and brigands tends to loosen a man's notions of propriety. “I thank you for the compliment; we appreciate your speed in communicating with the formation. I did not like the thought of letting Temeraire use the Divine Wind, not when it would surely make him a target.”

“About that,” Berkley starts, but Granby interrupts.

“You may interrogate him later, Sir – Lenton wants a word.”

“Oh, alright,” says Berkley with distinct disappointment. Granby ushers them away.

Laurence is not blind to the speculative glances they receive as they walk through the covert. Tharkay wears a bored expression as Granby leads them to the office, but Laurence notices the man taking careful stock of each aviator they pass. Laurence assesses them, too. He confirms that no one seems to wear similar flight-gear, nor the type of carabiners Tharkay finds so useful. Yet they also have no other unique equipment, nothing that Temeraire might be able to use. They walk past a few dragons, many of them still rigged in full harness, but this sight only confirms to Laurence that such a design is unwieldy at best.

Although it _would_ be helpful to get some rifleman on Temeraire. Laurence will have to think more on the design.

Granby leaves them at the office, which is smaller than Laurence would expect. And it is not _just_ Lenton awaiting them. Admiral Barhal is a man Laurence vaguely recognizes, though he cannot remember anything particular about the man except that he once served in a naval-mutiny, which is hardly helpful. He has to remind himself that he is no longer in the navy. He hovers uncertainly at the threshold of the room for a moment.

Whatever he intended to say, the moment is taken. “William Laurence,” Barhal says. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Now we see what a naval-man can do with dragons, eh?”

The admiral from the Corps scowls. “Mr. Laurence,” he says. “I am Admiral Lenton, of Obversaria; my colleague here is Admiral Barhal. Please, sit down.”

“And you,” Barhal says, “You are...?

“Mr. Tharkay handles the feral dragons among our fleet,” Laurence offers. Barhal glances at Lenton with raised eyebrows. “I assumed you may wish to speak with him as well.”

“Ferals?” Lenton asks. “Good god, is that what they were?”

Barhal frowns at them. A bit of the pleasure vanishes from his face. “Why, I hope you are just transporting them? All dragons belong to the Aerial Corps.”

Lenton pauses to shoot Barhal a sour look. The naval admiral seems oblivious to his own contradictions.

“They are not English dragons in any case,” Laurence says. “But you are wrong, Sir. Our Letter of Marquee grants us the right to add additional ships, and additional dragons, to our numbers.”

“The Corps did not grant you that Letter,” Lenton interjects.

“No,” Laurence concedes. “But it was given to us nonetheless.”

Lenton is not pleased, but after a second Barhal waves the matter away. “Forget the beasts, now – what about the ships?”

Laurence is fortunate to say that all of his ships have made it through the fighting with only minor damage. Barhal is also interested in his new acquisitions, although oddly he frowns heavily when Laurence's recitation ends.

By this time Tharkay has sagged back in his seat, eyeing the ceiling with an expression of spectacular boredom. He barely notices when he is addressed by Lenton.

“I admit, Mr. Tharkay, I has not expected to meet you under such circumstances. Yet your arrival is fortuitous; we have been planning to procure your services.”

Laurence is startled. “You are acquainted?”

“I do some work for the government on occasion,” says Tharkay. The answer seems deliberately vague.

Lenton explains, “We were hoping to employ you again, Mr. Tharkay. We need several eggs retrieved from the Turkish government – dragon eggs, I mean. We had some concerns about the security of such an arrangement, but if you are already traveling by convoy...?”

“Oh, good,” Tharkay says. “So he will have a chance to shoot me after all; I may have upset the Turkish Sultan,” he clarifies. “ - I am not sure it would be wise to send me there.”

“...Then we will send several of our officers with you,” Lenton decides. “We were already debating it; we have no notion of when the eggs will hatch, so they will make good candidates in the case of any incidents. Once in Turkey you may send them ahead to your contacts – I hope you are still on good terms with the ambassadors, at least?”

“Yes, that should work fine.”

“Then I will send with you a few lieutenants, if you have no objections, Captain Laurence? I suppose I do not know how privateers choose their courses, but...”

“We can certainly make the trip,” Laurence says. It is a bit of an inconvenience – he really does wish to check on Abiodun, especially considering the letter – but a request from the British government seems more important. He does wonder, privately, how they will get Temeraire back to Turkey; the dragon will not want to be ferried by raft for another such journey. But they can determine the details later.

This concluded, there is also a grudging matter of prize-money to be doled out since Laurence's fleet has, after all, helped account for the victory at Dover. As to this, Laurence looks over the numbers and can offer a happy solution.

“We are well enough in pocket, Sirs,” he says. Even aside from prize-money, Sala made clever trades at their previous ports and they will doubtlessly make good profits. “I understand we will have to undergo all formalities with the admiralty board, but if we may instead agree to forgo the payments of profit my men owe under the terms of Marque – which, I assure you, are somewhat below what _we_ would be owed for prize-money – then I believe the matter can be easily concluded.”

It is a happy enough offer, he feels, and good for both ends; Laurence does not particularly want to go to the lengthy trouble of finding or building more ships, nor dealing with the trouble of landed men in the meanwhile. If he sells just one or two ships the funds ought to pay the men just as well.

He's not sure why the admirals look so pained.

* * *

 

Laurence wakes to find half the crew on deck, all of them gawking at the oddest ship he has ever seen.

It is absolutely enormous – broader than a man-of war, with tall sides, despite having only two rows of gun-ports where there might have been three. From bow to stern Laurence would judge it at a colossal 350 feet in length, if not more. There is also a strange empty space right in the middle of the ship, which necessitates that the masts are spread oddly apart. Four upstanding poles square off this area, and a rolled-up tarp sits next to one, though the purpose for it is unclear.

As it draws closer to the shore Laurence sees several symbols painted on the side – Chinese characters. Underneath, in large flourishing strokes, is presumably an English translation:

_Divine Judgment._

One of the four Aerial Corps officers sent to escort them, Lieutenant Granby, joins him at the railing. “Lord,” he says. “Is that one of yours? I have never seen the like.”

Laurence starts to shake his head. But a joyful call comes from over the water, then cheers. From his place paddling next to the _Laiska Joutsen_ Temeraire raises his head in surprise. “Why,” he say. “It is the crew of the _Wenglong._ And, look behind them – that _is_ the _Wenglong.”_

Temeraire is quite right. But Pan Zhong is not with that familiar vessel; he is on the strange and outlandish ship, waving with unlikely eagerness

Laurence is baffled – not least because there is a scarlet-colored dragon peering at them from the deck of the larger ship.

“Well, I suppose we ought to see what that's about,” Granby says.

Laurence asks Mr. Tharkay to join them on the deck, and together Temeraire takes them all to the new ship.

The middle sized Chinese dragon – for that is what she must be – quickly scurries back to give way, bowing her head just as the foreign officers do. The empty space in the middle of the ship is perfectly sized for a pair of dragons. Laurence feels a rush of sudden understanding as the Chinese start to cheer.

Pan Zhong meets them wearing just a tiny, pleased smile. “Pray tell the captain that we are happy to see them,” Laurence says. “Though curious as to where he attained this ship.”

The captain answers. Laurence's Mandarin is more passable now, but he has Temeraire translate just to be sure.

“They consulted with Captain Sala and many others,” Temeraire interprets, “Because the Chinese do not make very good ships, even if they do have some better ideas, like the compartment sections that saved the _Wenglong_ from sinking.”

Laurence cannot imagine the price of outfitting a ship like this – and in so little time, too. “But, good god, where did they get the money?” he asks. “And a ship like this could not have been built swiftly...”

Temeraire asks. “He says the Emperor of China paid for it,” the dragon declares, wings ruffling in surprise. “Because I am a Celestial. And they ordered its construction nearly a year ago, when Pan Zhong first wrote to China about us. Laurence, I wonder why the Emperor would do that? It is very kind, though.”

Temeraire does not seem to understand the significance of this statement, but Laurence is staggered. The Emperor of China – why would he possibly care about Temeraire? Care enough to spend millions on a ship that will not even serve his navy.

Tharkay folds his arms and considers the captain thoughtfully.

“Ask him what the Emperor wants in return,” Laurence says.

But Pan Zhong is adamant that the ship was a gift. He seems puzzled when Laurence tries to question him further, maintaining simply that Temeraire is a Celestial, though at last he adds that the Imperial Family is 'watching their activities with great interest'.

That seems ominous.

But Temeraire is so pleased Laurence squashes his misgivings. “My apologies,” he says at last. “I must introduce you – Pan Zhong, this is Lieutenant John Granby, of His Majesty's Aerial Corps.

Granby is received with a little suspicion, but Pan Zhong seems to warm to him when Granby makes inquiries about the red dragon who is trying very hard not to look at Temeraire. A retired soldier, Pan Zhong says, who signed with them to defend the ship and 'serve' Temeraire. Granby departs at once to go speak with her, though what he means to say with their differing tongues Laurence cannot imagine.

Pan Zhong shows more positive emotion today than Laurence has seen ever the man express. Tharkay asks a few questions and the two descend quickly into a rapid exchange of Chinese.

After speaking with the captain for a minute Tharkay bursts into laughter.

Laurence squints. “...Is something wrong?”

Tharkay smiles at him – a grin full of teeth.

“Did you know,” he asks gleefully, “That they thought you were a relative of Napoleon?”

Laurence sighs.

 

 

 

With Temeraire's transportation issues resolved the fleet makes preparations to set out the next day. The _Divine Judgment_ will serve to carry both Temeraire and Arkady, and the _Wenglong,_ now repaired, will carry the Chinese dragon. Their complement now numbers 20 ships and 16 dragons. Some of them will doubtlessly be sold soon, but once they meet up with Captain Abiodun and Captain Viccario they will still have a fearsome fleet.

Laurence thinks back to the letter he received – wonders what Abiodun might have found so surprising among his own native lands.

Yet all that can wait. Before they make way Laurence presents Temeraire with a gift he was able to commission in port; a fine breastplate of platinum, ringed with pearls and diamonds. It put a heavy-dent even in Laurence's now well-supplemented accounts, but Temeraire's delight would be worth any price.

He also has to attend an official meeting with the navy-admiralty. For once bureaucracy is on his side; the admirals seem suspiciously eager to conclude Laurence's business and send him away from England. Laurence suspects this may have something to do with the ferals among his company, who are quite relieved to be back on land and keep sunning themselves on the port docks.

Privateers are, traditionally, allowed to keep the vessels they seize to expand their numbers, though prize-money, prisoners, and other items of capture are divided between them and their host nation. Laurence agrees to give away two of the fleet's smaller vessels – two of the captured Italian ships - as part of their due, and in exchange for supplies; their numbers are stretched thin and it will be a relief to consolidate the crews a little.

At the end of the day he returns to the covert to find Temeraire, ready to rejoin the _Divine Justice_ and set out. He is surprised to find Tharkay in Temeraire's clearing along with three unfamiliar dragons.

“Oh, Laurence!” Temeraire calls. “Is it not wonderful – Tharkay has found more ferals to fight for us!”

“ _They_ will fight,” sniffs a light blue mid-weight. “My name is Perscitia, and I will help carry heavy items if I must; also I would like to talk to some of those Chinese people. I hear they have many interesting ideas about other jobs for dragons.”

Dismayed, Laurence turns to Tharkay. “Is this not theft?” he wonders. “If these dragons are English, Tenzing - “

But Tharkay just shrugs. “They should be free to choose their own paths. Anyway, you are gaining quite a reputation now. The fleet must live up to it.”

“A reputation?”

It is true that Temeraire was of great use in the Battle of Dover, but it is a bit much to think they are greatly talked-about by anyone outside the Aerial Corps.

But Tharkay only sighs. “Laurence, with now _nineteen_ dragons among your fleet I would think very ill of you if you had _not_ managed to garner some sort of reputation.”

Well, when one phrases it like that.

But they will barely have the room for so many dragons. Laurence eyes the hopeful ferals. Aside from Perscitia there's a gangly Bright Copper, and one tiny dragon – a little Greyling, a courier smaller than any dragon among the fleet, who stares at Laurence hopefully.

“Very well,” he sighs. A this rate they will soon have too many dragons for their ships. “Let us speak to Captain Peura, then. I have not the slightest notion how we will feed them all.”

Temeraire beams, tail flicking in pleasure. “Oh, Laurence, I am very glad we did not join the Corps. It is quite nice here, but I cannot wait to be on the ocean again - and with so many new friends!”

“Is this normal, then?” Granby asks. “Ships and dragons just appear to volunteer for you?”

Laurence chooses not to respond. “Pray settle in, my dear,” he tells Temeraire. “I expect we are going to be on this ship a long while.”

But, watching Temeraire inspect the ship under the gaze of proud Chinese sailors, he cannot bring himself to regret anything that has led to this situation.

And, he consoles himself, their next few months ought to be perfectly quiet. Surely the admiralty's simple task will not prove difficult.

“Do you think,” Temeraire asks, “That any other dragons would like to join us before we go?”

“ _No_ ,” says Laurence immediately.

Perhaps he ought to ask Lieutenant Granby for some advice about dragons; Temeraire is getting a little too piratical for his tastes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am painfully aware that the Divine Judgment would take much longer to construct. Let's just pretend the Chinese were already building a grand dragon-ready ship and sent it along? With competent sailors this time?  
> It's possible. This whole story requires some major suspension of disbelief, bu it was fun to write.


End file.
